Trouble
by RustyPaperclip
Summary: If anyone asked Harkness if there was any trouble in Rivet City, he'd answer 'Sure. You can find the barber in the Muddy Rudder.' Because, he had never met anyone as troublesome as Butch. Told in 3 parts. Pre-slash to Slash COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

_Note: Ahem. This fic is rated M for language and mature situations. I haven't written the whole story yet so updates might be slow but I'd say it's around 10+ chapters I have no idea. I haven't visited this fandom for a while and dammit, my writing has really turned rusty (I am so ashamed). But anyway, I don't freakin' own Fallout. I'm just another fan and ...this fic has eventual Butch/Harkness. So, yeah. Onwards. _

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**Trouble  
Chapter 1**

If anyone asked him if there was any trouble in Rivet City, he'd answer 'Sure. You can find the barber in the Muddy Rudder. Down the stairwell to your left.' Because, he had never met anyone as troublesome as Butch DeLoria.

Not that he was 'difficult' or 'easy' or anything remotely close to an adjective that meant the same, but the barber; he was in a category of his own. Like a Deathclaw who had yao guai tendencies, or Shrapnel trying to be like Flak. They were so similar yet not quite the same – And Harkness realised he was incredibly bullshit at trying to wax poetic. That was because he wasn't programmed to do so. He only worked with facts and logic and waxing poetic was something so human that his wired side hadn't quite gotten the grasp of yet.

He glanced at the sky, noted its exact tinge of blue, _R224 G243 B214_, and inhaled the fetid air of the Wastes before resuming his thoughts.

From the first step on that rusted bridge in stolen boots, a cocky smirk pasted on his face as he twirled the switchblade around his fingers, Butch looked like trouble. After observing many humans and learning from them, Harkness could tell there was something different in the way Butch carried himself. It was grating –yes. He moved like someone who thought he knew better. He introduced himself as a true Tunnel Snake, _whatever that meant_, and proceeded to ask about 'the other asshat in a Vault 101 jumpsuit'.

Sure enough, within a week, he had caused five of the Rivet City citizens, including himself, to be thrown overboard for brawling.

Of course, many things had happened before then; many insignificant smaller things, like Flak's bottle of whiskey gone missing from his grip as he slept, or Tammy's watered down beer finished before she even took a sip. These things were insignificant because Harkness never drank and because these people might have been too drunk to notice that they had actually, finished their own drinks. But then, there were more serious things like 10mm bullets swiped from Flak and Shrapnel's corner. Or even an old Rob Co jumpsuit from Bannon's shelf turning up in Seagrave's locker. Yet even more serious and not so serious at the same time was when Seagrave shoved his motorcycle helmet into Harkness' arms to complain about the ant's antennae stuck onto the helmet's visor. He was about to chalk up the juvenile act to the children when Seagrave mentioned that his helmet was inside his locked up room the whole time. And looking at the children, Bryan, James and CJ, Harkness doubted they were skilful enough to pick locks.

Everything pointed to the barber and his skilful hands. But before he could even confront said barber, Harkness was called to settle the dispute outside the Muddy Rudder. He found Sister, Shrapnel and the barber fighting and bleeding on the floor. It took him and two other guards to haul them up the stairwell to throw them overboard – just to cool them off before Harkness tried to figure out what the hell was going on.

What the hell _was_ going on?

Shoving the barber against the railing, the snake at the back of his jacket glared up at Harkness and he felt the other slip away to reverse their positions. Butch had Harkness pinned against the railing of the bridge for a moment. The petty criminal had this air of someone who engaged in mutual fist fights often. Harkness saw those lips curl into a self-satisfied grin and it took just one more punch across the jaw before the barber tripped into the water. There was a long and loud curse before a resounding splash as he submerged into the green irradiated liquid. Butch had almost managed to pull Harkness down into the water with him but metal was heavier than flesh. So, when the other man fell overboard, Harkness slipped and heaved against the railing but did not follow him into the water. The front of his armour fell open; the sneaky bastard managed to rip one of the buckles off it.

Not too long ago, they had another of his kind; only that Vault kid was searching for his father and ended up saving the whole Wasteland _but_ his father. Somewhere along the way, the kid saved Harkness as well. He could easily trust that other Vault kid. But not this one. Harkness didn't exactly trust this charmer with the silver tongue but the number of people who did, baffled him. Somehow, he even managed to get Lana Danvers rooting for him, saying that he was 'just playing around'. Right, Lana. And all that blood on the floor of the Muddy Rudder was the result of the men 'playing around'. Both she and Vera had rushed on the bridge to stop him from banishing Butch from Rivet City. Then she said 'I owe it to him, Hark.' Asking her what she was talking about made her give Harkness a small smile as she shook her head. She didn't want to tell him. What alarmed him was the way Vera nodded as she said the same thing to him: that they owed something to the barber, that they were indebted to him. In fact, even the two men who were thrown overboard, Shrapnel and Sister, had justified their fighting as 'playin' 'round, Hark' as they climbed back up to the city.

Something wasn't right. They were hiding something. And the barber knew their secrets.

Harkness felt the level of safety in Rivet City lower.

Butch stopped in front of Harkness as he slowly wrung out his wet jacket and ran equally wet fingers through his dark hair. Instead of twirling his switchblade, he was twirling the ripped off buckle from Harkness' uniform around his fingers. Harkness had a feeling he wouldn't get that buckle back. Butch smirked. Eyeing Harkness with something like a challenge, Butch leaned so close his lips touched the rim of Harkness' ear.

"How's your wiring doing, tin can?"

The whispered words shut down Harkness' entire system for a split second. The barber knew his secret.

And unlike the other Vault kid, this one wanted something in return for keeping his mouth shut.


	2. Chapter 2

_Note: I actually wanted to make each chapter longer, but after all that editing, it's been reduced to this. For some reason, I can't write longer chapters. Anyway, I'm glad that some people find this fic interesting. Thanks for reading. I really appreciate it. _

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**Trouble  
Chapter 2**

True enough. That night, when most of the guards had gone off duty, Harkness heard echoing footsteps behind him from the same boots that walked down the bridge a week ago. He knew these footsteps could be much softer because the barber could swipe bullets or booze without alerting anyone. But tonight, they were consciously loud behind him. It meant that the barber wanted his presence known. No one could escape from that presence even if they wanted to. The footsteps followed him through the dimly lit hallways, as he checked for any suspicious characters loitering around.

The only suspicious character was the one following him approximately twenty metres away.

He considered telling the barber to soften his footfalls as it was silent in Rivet City; as silent as a ship could be with its loud banging or whirring as old, rusty metal settled. But it should be quieter because the residents were all accounted for according to schedule. They were supposed to be sleeping. The only one resident who refused to sleep for no good reason was the one stalking him.

As Harkness climbed up the stairs to the middle deck, his stalker decided to affirm his presence in magnitudes by whistling a tune. He almost turned to face the barber but decided against. He didn't want to acknowledge that presence just yet, no matter how determined the criminal was. The whistle was shrill and sudden before it formed some kind of demented rhythm. It was in the tune of a song Harkness couldn't recognise, like some kind of a brainwashing tune that looped over and over. In the Commonwealth, they had something like this: music that looped over and over in the elevator. Thinking about it, the elevator music might actually have been some form of brainwashing mechanism to keep androids in line. Harkness couldn't whistle. He simply wasn't programmed to do so. Then again, if he could whistle, the only tune he knew was some brainwashing tune and he'd rather not whistle that. The whistling, together with the footsteps, followed him up the stairs, replicating a ride in the Commonwealth elevator. The tempo pounded in his mind.

Harkness turned slightly to see the figure doggedly pursuing him.

It was the barber, of course. As expected. Not many people in the Wastes wore Vault jumpsuits. Even lesser were those who wore leather jackets over said jumpsuits.

The barber was here to claim some mouth-shutting incentive, wasn't he?

The noise accompanied him throughout his patrol and by the time he returned to the main deck, he was trying to smother his mind from playing the same tune in his head. His mind was pulsing as well, like the way it was whenever it was processing some very important information. What important information his processing unit could glean from fucked up whistling escaped him.

He couldn't figure the sneaky bastard out. What could he possibly want? For Harkness to not throw him off the ship? Right. The barber didn't need Harkness to ensure his permanent stay in Rivet City. Everyone on this ship was on the criminal's side. Somehow his charms or whatever talents he had had blinded the residents of Rivet City. Anyone would throw Sister out before they threw Butch out. And even then, there were those that were fond of Sister. Bottomline: Butch had some form of immunity on the ship. He didn't need to do shit to Harkness.

Taking his post at the entrance of Rivet City, Harkness relieved the guard on duty. Unlike humans, he didn't need to sleep. He needed to recharge, but he could do that with his eyes open. The guard saluted him; a bit too enthusiastic in the night like this, and left. Harkness heard the whistling stop, and then there was a short exchange of greetings behind him before the night resumed its silence. Now the only thing left on the agenda was to face the barber and his bullshit.

Harkness could feel the other's gaze on his back, sizing him up. He opted to ignore it for a moment longer as he stared up at the sky, trying to relax a little. He waited till he couldn't take any more of that gaze. The sight that greeted him when he turned was a little unnerving, to say the least. The barber had been watching him, eyes fixed in a very intense open gaze. It felt like he was going through a tune up, like those he was subjected to back in the Commonwealth after returning from one of the many hunting missions. The barber looked thoughtful – and that was probably what surprised him. He seemed lesser of a jackass with that look on his face – but as Lana said to him, 'looks can be deceiving'. Funny that she was now one of those who were part of the newly formed 'Butch the Barber' fan club.

The faded blue jumpsuit appeared more faded in the light, but light reflected off the metal buckle that was twirling around the barber's fingers. It came to him that the buckle didn't seem so out of place on Butch's image, even though it had been on his own armour a few hours before. That irked him. He saw the barber eyeing him and when he noticed that Harkness had finally acknowledged his presence, he tilted his head, smiling an unsettling smile.

"Is there a problem?" Harkness broke the silence. He didn't like the way the barber was staring at him.

"I don't see it," was the reply. The gaze swept over his physique again. "Where are the fuckin' wires?" The nerve of this guy…

"If you wait a while, I can puke them out for you," Harkness said, not amused.

"You can puke?" The barber's smirk widened. "Can you bleed?"

"That's none of your business." Harkness confirmed that the Chinese Assault rifle was strapped across his back. He noted the distance between the both of them should the barber decide to cause trouble.

"Sure, Chief." The barber chuckled darkly. "I can find that out on my own." _That_ already sounded like a threat.

"Try anything and you'll be floating face down in the river."

"Oh, come on. Ain't we friends?" Friends? How the hell did this kid gauge friendship?

"Are we friends, barber?"

"It's Butch, Chief." The barber grinned. "Don't machines get everythin' right?" He didn't like this. Not one bit. He faced the sky, smouldering at the power the other had because of a secret he didn't want disclosed. Yes. That was it. He needed to figure out what Butch wanted so that he would keep his mouth shut about Harkness' inner android. The sky had considerably darkened into an _R18 G30 B27 _shade of blue.

"What do you want from me?" he finally asked, his voice sounding deeper than usual. He faced Butch again. The thoughtful expression was on the barber's face and he took his time answering.

"Do all androids have this kind of shitty haircut?" Surprised by the insult, Harkness watched Butch twirl the buckle. "You look like the fuckin' Overseer." What the hell was an 'overseer'? His wired side searched for that term in his memory and came up _undefined_. He filed away that question for later. There were more important things to focus on for the moment. Like this person and whatever motives he had.

"What do you want?" he repeated.

"I wanna mess with your hair." Butch smirked as he eyed Harkness again. Harkness didn't know what to say to that. In fact, neither of them said anything the rest of the night. When it was an hour to dawn, Butch pushed away from the wall and stretched.

"See you tonight, Chief," Butch said. He nodded at Harkness, turned and entered the stairwell, leaving him alone to wonder what the hell was going on.


	3. Chapter 3

_Note: Sorry that this chapter is later than I planned to upload it. Busy week. A ton of edits. Erm...I know I said that this will probably be around 10+ chapters...Well, I might be wrong. After analysing (right...), I think I need a couple more than 10+ chapters because I'm breaking each chapter down a little due to pacing and other stuff. More plot in this chapter (and trying a little something new). Anyways, thanks for reading. Thanks for your responses. I hope this series continues to entertain you. Onwards. _

_Thank you _**A fan**_. I usually reply to reviews, so I'm replying to you here. Thanks for reading and leaving a review. I'm glad you like my stories. Makes my day._

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**Trouble**  
**Chapter 3**

"Was there any trouble last night?" Lana asked as she threw a bottle of water at him. He saw the bottle sail in a perfect half-moon arc before it landed in the palm of his hand. He caught it with precision. As he sat staring at the bottle, his units catching up with his reactions, he pondered the question. Was there trouble? Sure, Lana. Trouble visited him last night. It wanted to mess with his hair.

"Something like that," he replied instead. Sometimes, it paid to not answer too specifically. Specifics made him sound too much of a machine, _less of a man_. "Nothing I can't handle," he added, finally twisting the cap off the bottle. In front of him, Gary Staley offered him a bowl of noodles. He declined.

Lana placed herself beside him while putting down a bowl of noodles with two squirrel-on-a-sticks in front of her. Her daily breakfast. That and a bottle of water and if she was hungrier than usual, a plate of Mirelurk cakes on the side. For someone so fit, Lana ate a lot; she never seemed to gain any weight. Harkness swallowed some of the water. As Lana picked at her food, Harkness saw the way Tobias eyed her from the corner of his eyes. They were both at it again, weren't they?

A few days ago, both of them had some sort of argument regarding something mundane, _he wasn't sure what_, and hadn't been talking since. Not so surprising. Wasn't the first time. _Fifth time_. It didn't help that Toby was one of the most indecisive bastards Harkness had ever met. He couldn't even decide if he wanted to be a bastard or not. _Did he want Lana? Did he not want Lana?_ Toby needed some sense knocked into him and if Lana wasn't going to do it, maybe he should offer some help. He wanted Lana happy and she had been happy, _somewhat_, whenever she returned from one of their dates; all unfocused and dreamy. No one had ever made Lana Danvers that distracted before Toby, so this guy was promising. She was even missing shots during target practice and Lana had always been a sharpshooter. Then, a couple of weeks into their relationship, _7 weeks 3 days 15 hours 5 minutes 30 seconds to be exact_, something happened and now, they both couldn't decide on each other.

No. Lana decided on Toby. Toby decided on pointless indecisiveness.

Harkness decided not to get involved in anyone's love problems. He just guarded the ship.

"Why? What happened? Was Paulie trying to steal from his own shop again?" Lana asked. She looked up from her noodles. Harkness saw her glance at Toby before facing him.

"Nothing like that. So don't worry about it." He capped the bottle again. "I see bigger problems here."

"I didn't start anything. Don't look at me," she warned. She took a huge bite of her squirrel on a stick, her jowls working down the meat.

"He's looking at you," he said to her under his breath. Lana lifted her head and glanced at Toby; their eyes met for a moment before she returned to her bowl of noodles.

"His loss," she murmured but Harkness didn't miss the hint of bitterness in her voice. "Don't worry about me, Hark," she said. He let her finish her breakfast in peace.

The ship was just starting to awake from slumber. Bannon and Seagrave entered the marketplace, each pretending they could kill the other with death glares. They wouldn't dare aim their guns at each other. Ted swaggered alongside Flak, talking about having a concoction of Jet and Vodka in the morning. Seconds later, Shrapnel arranged the guns at his store as he had his own breakfast: a box of smokes. James and CJ ran up the stairs away from Tammy to call on Bryan at the Weatherly Hotel. They would be heading to the flight deck to play like they usually did. Everyone was accounted for according to schedule in the marketplace. Harkness only had to check the decks for the rest of the citizens, but gauging from the number of people already here, he figured that everyone should be where they were supposed to be.

Everyone but his night visitor.

On top of not being able to figure out what the hell the barber wanted from him, he didn't know where the sneaky bastard was. It was unsettling.

Belle Bonny gave the kid a place to stay, didn't she? She had known him less than two days before deciding that he deserved a naval cot in the back room. So, the barber should be in the Muddy Rudder at the moment. Sleeping, most probably. The kid stayed up most of the night distracting Harkness with his presence and unlike himself, the kid had no recharging units in his body. For a proper 8 hours worth of sleep for the human body to restore energy, the barber should be up at noon.

'_See you tonight, Chief._'

Right. What was that about? What was the barber planning? The brainwashing whistling did nothing to his processing unit and Butch wasn't going to succeed in lulling Harkness into a false sense of security.

Harkness didn't trust him. Or his Vault jumpsuit.

A flurry of black and blue moved into his line of vision, stopping to lean against Gary's counter. At least, now, Harkness knew where the barber was. He wasn't sleeping.

Harkness ran his eyes up that form to see the buckle from his armour dangling around the handle of a switchblade. It grated his nerves.

"What can I get you?" Angela greeted the barber with her shy smile. The barber smirked and stepped close to her to say something Harkness couldn't catch. Then, as soon as Angela left, the barber turned and caught his gaze. Had he known that Harkness was staring at him? The smirk was still there, only more… disconcerting. And there was that look on his face again, the intense one, the one that seemed to be checking his head for any loose wires or anything to prove that Harkness was wired. Harkness held that stare till Angela returned with a bottle of cola in her hands, which the barber took and paid for. He uncapped the bottle with a kind of practised ease before shoving the cap into his pocket. The perpetual smirk was on his face as he tipped the bottle over his lips without them touching the rim of the bottle. The dark liquid flowed out like a fountain into his mouth, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. Impossible, but the smirk was still on his face, his eyes on Harkness as he drank.

Harkness wasn't very impressed.

"Hark, can you take my shift this morning? I have something I need to do," Lana interrupted his scientific observation of a petty criminal. Beside him, she tipped the bowl over her lips to catch the last drops of broth as she pushed her chair back, the legs of it scraping on the metal floor. "Just for a few hours," she added. He watched her stand up, brush her armour for any crumbs and glance at Toby again. She had this air of determination around her, like she was going on a mission. Across them, Toby lifted his head to look at her, shifting as though he wanted to talk to her.

"Toby?" Harkness asked her. Lana shook her head. She smiled reassuringly at him.

"Butch." She headed towards the lower deck with Butch following her closely. He grinned at Harkness as he shut the door behind them.

Now that he was sure of everyone's locations, it felt like the whole ship had gone to hell.


	4. Chapter 4

_Note: Another busy week. Another update. I tried to push this chapter earlier but couldn't so I apologise for that. I, now, plan to update once a week. Thank you for all the faves, reviews and alerts. They put a smile on my face and I hope this chapter puts a smile on yours. Hopefully, this series continues to entertain. But hey, if it doesn't you can always tell me. Thank you very much for reading. Onwards. _

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**Trouble**  
**Chapter 4**

Lana returned after some time, _2 hours 43 minutes 40 seconds_, with a small, determined kind of smile on her face and less tense than when she left. She grabbed Harkness' bottle of water, _still a quarter full_, and proceeded to swallow some of it. Asking about Butch made her give him a _smirk_; Harkness didn't like that smirk on her. Lana thanked him for covering part of her shift then immediately nagged at him to take a break. Efficient as always, but more secretive than usual. If only she knew that he hadn't 'rested' for days. He stayed with her for a while longer because Toby appeared; his stance was close to hostile but otherwise calm. They glanced at each other before Toby stomped off into the marketplace. Toby was full of shit, sure. But between the barber and the indecisive bastard, Harkness would still trust Toby not to toy with Lana's feelings. Whatever the guard felt was real, even if he had a hard time understanding it. Not that Harkness understood it; just… these planted memories in his head explained to him a couple of human things. He knew Lana could take care of herself but couldn't help worrying that she'd get hurt. As she gulped the drink like she hadn't seen water in days, he discreetly scanned her neck for marks. No obvious marks. But there was a new red mark on her forearm.

She was cheating on Toby, wasn't she?

"Ugh, no, Hark. We aren't together now," she answered, dismissing any other questions by handing him back the empty bottle.

Deciding to obey her, because she wasn't going to humour him when she was in this chipper mood, Harkness climbed up the stairs to the bridge tower. He needed to change his armour anyway. Petty criminal's grabby hands stole his buckle. He also needed to take a shower. Shave. Maybe take a brief rest. He didn't need to get some sleep. But staying awake and continuously being on duty made him appear more of a machine, _less of a man_. Amidst the chorus of greetings in the room, he zoned in on his bed. Occupied. Whoever it was had buried his face under a pile of armour and was snoring loudly; whoever it was also left his boots on. The scene didn't surprise him. Seeing that two more guards were recruited in addition to the five a few months before, everyone in the tower had to share their beds at the moment. With the water purifier in operation, the guards had to be involved in the security at the memorial as well as to provide safe transportation of Aqua Pura. This resulted in more guards volunteering their services to the cause. So, Harkness left his bed empty as much as he could. For anyone who needed it.

Harkness grabbed his razor and a towel and headed to the communal bathroom.

He caught the mechanic fiddling with the pipes in an unorthodox way.

"Dude, I mean, Chief Harkness…sir. Seriously. It's just Jet. It won't blow the pipes," Ted Strayer explained, trying to persuade him that Jet would improve the plumbing.

"Are you high right now?" Harkness scanned his face. Hard to tell if the kid was high if he didn't know what he was looking for. The kid looked stoned most of the time. Ted stared at him, pausing for a moment to scratch the back of his head; he was trying to process the question and obviously having difficulty doing so. "Jet is not the answer to everything."

"But dude… Jet cleans _my_ pipes." Harkness didn't exactly know what that meant and he decided he didn't need to.

"Get proper Abraxo from Seagrave."

"Awww, man. Party pooper."

"Look. No Jet in the pipes means there's more for you." Ted scratched his head again then slowly, Harkness saw the spark of understanding in his eyes. Ted smiled.

"Cool, dude." Harkness watched the way his bangs, _an inch shorter than usual_, fell over his eyes as he picked up the brush and bucket off the floor. With a small nod, Ted walked out of the bathroom. Harkness assumed he would get the said cleaning agent. Of course, after that, Ted would pay the Cantellis a visit too. For someone who was addicted to chems, the kid was quite level-headed. _To a certain extent._ He was smart enough not to get totally strung out like Paulie.

Facing himself in the mirror, Harkness braced himself for a shave. It seemed that everytime he shaved; the razorblade would catch onto his skin. At the exact same spot. Everytime. It was as if he had been programmed to 'accidentally' cut himself. Right there on the left side of his chin. Whenever the blade neared that spot, his fingers would cramp up, the blade cutting into the skin at an angle. Damn Zimmer. He stared accusingly at his fingers and continued to shave despite synthetic red running down his jaw. By the time he was done with his shower, the red had stopped flowing but the wound was still there. He ignored it.

Technically, he wasn't on duty today. But he _was_ because he was chief of security. Plus, trouble promised to visit him tonight. He needed answers and he didn't like how the barber was traipsing around with his second-in-command. Teaching her how to smirk. Shit. He didn't like it. Didn't trust this particular Vault kid.

He relieved the guard on duty and took over.

"Hey, Chief," was the way the barber greeted him, _3 hours 13 minutes 5 seconds later_, hands in his pockets and walking up to him in an easy manner. "How's your wiring doing?" he announced. It was loud and tactless and a good thing that it was too late for anyone, _other than him_, to be wandering onto the bridge. "You missed me, didn't you?" _No. _Missing meant that he felt the distinct absence of the barber. He didn't. Not the smirk either. It was still there on his face. Perpetual. Harkness noted his former buckle still on the other person, then confronted him.

"Are you sleeping with Lana?" His interrogation was short of a gun to the head, said out in clipped tones. But Butch didn't even falter in his steps as he leaned against the railing, _less than 2 metres away_, next to the security chief, promptly invading his personal space. Butch pulled up the collar of his jacket, the action obscuring his neck so Harkness couldn't observe it for marks.

"Are you fuckin' a toaster?" was the _unrelated_ reply. His confusion must have shown on his face because the barber sniggered. What did this have to do with a toaster? He didn't know, but didn't like the way Butch was watching him like he _had_, in fact, been fucking a toaster. He saw the other's eyes roam over him. "Y'know. You shouldn't shove stuff into electric holes." Harkness had to steer this discussion back to Lana.

"What are you doing with her?" The barber shrugged. "It's a simple question," Harkness pressed.

"Ain't a simple answer." Butch pulled out his switchblade to twirl around his fingers. They were both momentarily distracted by the metal glinting in the light. "See, we kinda agreed on some things so I can't just tell you shit." He stopped twirling the blade and directed a stare at Harkness. "What if it's you, eh, tin man?" The smirk on the other's face widened, the left side of his lips curling up just a little bit more than the right. "You won't want me spilling _your _secrets…"

Well…

Gripping the railing, Harkness faced the sky. _R22 G38 B34_. He didn't like where this conversation was heading.

"We have to talk," he said.

"Sure. But don't expect me to, y'know, listen or anything." Butch resumed twirling his blade.

"You can stay on this ship – I won't throw you over … so long as you tell me what you're doing with Lana," Harkness started. "And you keep my condition a secret," he added, his voice devoid of emotion.

"You fuckin' kidding me?" The unexpected outburst caused him to snap his face back to Butch. "What kinda security chief are you?" Butch sounded unimpressed, but the expression on his face seemed to show otherwise. Harkness didn't get it. He stared at the barber who was staring at him; he looked thoughtful. Then slowly, those lips curled into its usual sneer. "No."

"What do you mean, 'no'?"

"No deal, tin man."

"Bullshit," Harkness cursed. Sneaky bastard. "How about this? No arrest. No throwing you overboard. No interrogations. No trouble from my guards." Right. That sounded reasonable, enough. That was how to deal with petty criminals. But Butch shook his head, still twirling the blade. It was obvious he was getting enjoyment from this. Harkness eyed Butch in disbelief. His grip on the bridge railing tightened. "And all the drinks you want –"

"I already get them free." Bullshit. Harkness watched the switchblade spin, his buckle attached to its handle dancing with the blade. For some reason, that image made something in him clench as his mind whirred.

…Fine.

"Anything," he growled. "Mess with my hair, anything you want – I don't care," he said resignedly. "Just answer some questions about Lana. And shut your mouth about my condition."

"One question," Butch bargained. "And I get to choose."

"Five."

"No way. One."

"Three questions." The twirling halted and Butch was staring at him again through narrowed eyes, only this time, the gaze was heavier. Intense. It seemed to finally focus on one of his wires and was tracing it around his face. _There were no loose wires on his face and he didn't know what Butch was staring at._ It was unsettling. Minutes passed. Butch lifted his face to the sky, winced and pushed off the railing. He reached for his collar. Long fingers pinched the tag and pulled down, unzipping the jacket. Harkness stilled.

"What the hell are you doing?" he blurted.

"Talking," Butch answered in a matter-of-fact way, as though that answer made sense in context to him stripping in front of Harkness like it nothing was out of the ordinary. As Butch shrugged off the jacket, he cast his eyes over Harkness' form. He pointed at the armour. "Take it off, Chief."

What the hell had he gotten himself into?


	5. Chapter 5

_Note: Thanks for reading. Thanks for all the responses. Any response is very much appreciated. Feels great to know that someone's reading what you've written. Feels awesome. Sorry for the cliffhanger. There'll be lots more of that. Well, not this chapter. Maybe. Onwards._

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**Trouble  
Chapter 5**

Well…

This was… crude.

He expected something different, of course. Something more like a request for money or immunity from being thrown off the ship or even a bottle of whiskey every night. Something less desperate. Less uncontrollable. More civilised. And definitely not something like this.

He should've kept his armour on. Because this had been pointless.

The side of his head hurt. His nose was sore – he didn't know if it was broken. His body ached, no doubt about it. He could feel his muscles burning as he leaned against the wall to steady himself, calm his breathing and check that his system was still in working order. _30.3% damage, all systems in operation._ Right. Nothing he couldn't handle. Good to know that his body was still functioning despite the many blows he took.

It had been some time since he got beaten up like this.

That was because it was only recently that trouble slithered onto the ship. Now that it had its fun with him, it decided to lie down on the floor doing whatever it did. Laughing. That was what it was doing.

The idiot was laughing even though he was lying on the floor, exhausted and complaining that his back hurt. He deserved it. He was the one who struck first.

Harkness had obediently taken off his armour and as soon as he placed it onto the floor, the barber had lunged at him attempting to rip his face off with his hands.

Harkness retaliated, of course. He had fought Butch off before. In the same location, even. The only difference was this time he couldn't throw the trash overboard.

Harkness lifted up his undershirt to see if there were any bruises. There was one dark bruise on his chest that was fading away. No other marks he could see. Smoothing his shirt back, he glared at the supine figure on the floor. What was the point of this? Really. What was the point? Was this a rematch? He didn't even anticipate this when Butch demanded he take his armour off. Yes, he took it off. To humour the barber. And he wanted to know why Lana even thought being around Butch was safe. This guy was trouble.

Butch stopped laughing then and started coughing violently. It sounded… painful.

Trouble or not, he had to make sure the barber was mostly alive. He was still the security chief here. Harkness reluctantly pushed off the wall and walked to where the barber lay.

The barber's face was clean, devoid of any marks or blood. His usually sculpted hair was tousled. His lower lip was slightly swollen but that wasn't Harkness' fault because he didn't aim for the criminal's face. Butch must've done that to himself. Apart from that damage, there was nothing out of place on him, which probably meant that most of the barber's injuries were hidden under the jumpsuit. When he nudged his toe at an ankle, Butch started sniggering again before giving him a toothy grin.

"You're really wired, ain't you?" he rasped. Harkness didn't answer. He didn't like how pleased Butch looked at the moment even though he was clearly in pain. Still, Harkness had to admit that the grin made him relieved because in the midst of their exchanged blows, he didn't hold back. The last time he hit someone that hard, it was to knock another android out. _Androids were made of metal. Barbers were made of skin, bones, flesh. _He had punched the barber hard, not holding back any strength at all. But this barber took that hit and pushed back almost instantly. Never even let the sting settle. He fought like someone desperate. Grabbing, pulling and shoving. All hands and insults. Slipping out of his grasp. Dodging away too fast for him to catch. He never stayed in one spot for more than a second, jumping around as though there was someone behind him. The barber turned around so many times, Harkness swivelled his head to see if they had an audience. None. It was just the two of them on the bridge. And in that moment of unguarded hesitation, Harkness earned a punch right in the gut. The pain shooting through his body made him stumble. That hurt. More than he expected. The barber hissed something he couldn't catch and Harkness grabbed him and slammed him against the wall. Much harder than he should.

_What kinda security chief are you? _

At this moment, Harkness had no idea. What kind of security chief hit an innocent civilian? Then again, this kid wasn't exactly innocent, was he?

Harkness offered a hand; he wanted to make sure the barber could still stand. Wouldn't be good if a security chief crippled a civilian he was supposed to protect. Right. Barbers with violent tendencies needed protection too. Butch's grip was very warm around his hand and the heat stunned Harkness for a moment. Butch let go to lean against the railing; the warmth faded.

"You win, Chief." He… won? He wasn't even aware this was a competition. "You got your three questions." Harkness stared at him.

That was _why_ they were fighting?

"Is this how you solve your problems?" Butch shrugged. He dusted dirt off his jumpsuit then wiped his hands on his thighs. He pulled his jacket off the railing and dusted that too, shaking any invisible rust off it.

"I'm a Tunnel Snake." Was that a justified answer? What the hell was a Tunnel Snake? That question could wait. His mind filed away '_tunnel snake'_ for later. More importantly, he had to find out the barber's dealings with Lana. And seeing that he apparently had won, he could ask his questions.

"Are you dating Lana?"

"Nah." No pause there at all. He watched Butch put his jacket back on, sliding the leather underneath that little gadget on his forearm easily. That little gadget was robust; Harkness knew that first hand when it smacked the side of his head. The hit made his skull twitch and his system race to confirm that his head was still connected to his body. "That's one question."

"You're using her, then?" _S__econd question._

"Nah," Butch said, giving him a once over. "She's using me." Harkness must've shown some emotion at that because the barber chuckled at what he saw. The self-satisfied grin made its way back to the barber's face. "I ain't shitting you, man." He wanted to ask what she was using Butch for but he realised that that question should be directed at Lana instead.

"And you willingly let her use you?"

"What? You wouldn't?" What kind of a question was that? Lana was his second-in-command, a great person and he would protect her with everything he had. Would he let her use him? Honestly, he couldn't even answer that question. It never crossed his mind. Nobody wanted to use him. Well, that wasn't true. Zimmer used him. The selfish bastard. No. Nobody wanted to use him the way Butch implied Lana was using him. Well, that wasn't true either because he distinctly remembered being used like _that_ a few times. "I mean, come on. What kinda asshat would push her away?"

Barber had a valid point.

"An indecisive bastard," Harkness answered.

"You said it, Chief." Their eyes met and it was clear that they were both thinking of the same indecisive bastard. _Toby. _At least they were on this same page.

"You break her heart, you have hell to pay," Harkness threatened. "Got that?"

"Sure thing, Chief." He stretched. He winced. "You done? Cause I got stuff I want…" Right. They made a deal, didn't they? Butch zipped up his jacket. "Tonight. Muddy Rudder. Someone's gonna steal Flak's bottle of scotch." Butch gave him a hard stare. "There's gonna be a fight." That couldn't be good.

"I'll be there," Harkness said immediately, noting the place and time. This was serious. He had to break up this alleged fight. Make sure no one got killed. He reached for his armour to put it on. "Who's stealing Flak's drink?"

"Hey, man," Butch started. "Ain't androids smarter than this?" Harkness faced him, watching the smirk on his face slowly widen as the meaning of his words sank in.


	6. Chapter 6

_Note: I've uploaded this chapter earlier this week cause I'm gonna be pretty busy this weekend, so I apologise if anything sounds off. Not much explanation going on in this chapter, (as always). I promise everything will be clear (somewhat) in the following chapters! The next chapter will be out on schedule, I hope. Cause I'm gonna be pretty busy next week too. To everyone who's busy as well, GOOD LUCK! Thanks for reading! Onwards!_

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**Trouble  
Chapter 6**

He watched the sky turn light. _R194 G200 B187_. Morning. Lana was on his case again because he hadn't returned to the bridge tower. She followed him as he walked around the guard room, fussing about him and his sudden lack of 'perfection'. He didn't like it when that word was aimed at him but this was Lana and he could tell from the undertones of her voice that she was worried. She worried about him too often and for too many menial things. Harkness ran a hand through his unkempt hair when he glanced at himself in the mirror she handed him. Sorry, Lana. Couldn't be helped. Trouble manhandled him last night. He was probably going to do that again later.

Sneaky bastard had rescheduled his schedule.

They reached his naval cot. Still occupied. Someone with very light blonde hair and a matching thick, blonde moustache was snoring in it. _One of the newer guards: Henri. Ex-Steeler. 28 years old._ He was one of those sent by the Brotherhood of Steel to guard the purifier but decided to stay on at Rivet City instead. He was hugging his rifle while he slept. Steelers had an uncommon love for steel.

Lana was still following him as they walked to the marketplace. He really didn't need to listen to her to know what she was saying. She said it often enough that it was routine. He waited for her to order her usual from Gary before he sprung the question on her.

"What are you doing with the barber?" Great timing. She even stopped the spoon reaching her mouth to stare at him. Just for a moment. _3 seconds._ Then she was slurping the soup.

"Butchie? He's a sweetheart. Has a way with words." Right, Lana. So did Ted Strayer. "He knows how to treat people." No. The barber talked with his fists.

"Are we talking about the same barber here?" She smiled at him, amused.

"The one with the tight ass? Yep." …Right. "Vera knows first hand." No shit. He didn't need to know this. Lana had this huge grin on her face as she was relaying all this, probably trying to make him uncomfortable. She was succeeding. "Vera's pretty knowledgeable about that. She even thinks your ass –"

"Okay. Hold up. You're using him to… Why are you…with him?" She tilted her head and smiled at him.

"I have a leather kink."

"What?"

"Kidding." She elbowed him, laughing. "But you do, don't you?" What the – where the hell did she get that from? "No, I mean. Butchie's really nice, Hark. Very protective. A little like you, sometimes. But you're not like him." That was a given. She gave him a smile and ruffled his hair.

"I don't have a leather kink." She laughed.

For most part of the day, he watched Flak and Shrapnel at their shop. The ex-raider and the ex-slaver had a dynamic relationship. When Shrapnel was ticked off, Flak was calm; when Flak was annoyed, Shrapnel was content. Balanced. Intimate. They communicated with their own secret language, saying things with the way they manoeuvred around each other. A pointed look. An eyebrow raise. A shared cigarette. An exchange of affection-laced insults. They didn't drink while they worked. Incredible restraint. No booze anywhere near them.

No Butch anywhere either. Maybe he finally decided to sleep. Did vault kids ever sleep?

Definitely not this one.

It was 9 in the evening, _2135h_, when he was told that he was already late to the party. This news came to him in the form of a very confused Ted Strayer asking him if he should wait till the wrestling match was over before fixing the sinks in the room adjacent to the bar. Bullshit. Bastards couldn't wait till it was late enough before starting anything.

Harkness went down the stairwell and interrupted the activity.

"Fuck…" was the way Sister greeted him, his hands wound around Butch's neck while Shrapnel was on all fours spitting blood on the floor. Flak emerged from somewhere on his left and denied everything before Harkness even said anything.

"Harky boy. We don't want no trouble." Bullshit. They already had him. "Someone stole my scotch."

"I think it's the little Vault scum," Sister spat in Butch's face. Harkness could see the spittle fly and land on a sweat-stained cheek. "Fucker took my beer too." Butch shoved him off.

"You're askin' for it, pal," Butch hissed back, grimacing as he wiped the spit off his face.

"Shut up, you twat," Shrapnel slurred, pointing an empty bottle at Sister. "I know it's you," Shrapnel accused, getting up from the floor to shove him with his head like a Mirelurk but without a top shell. The bottle in his hand rolled away forgotten. Drunk as he was, he managed to knock everyone down; the men fell to the floor in an array of limbs. So, Shrapnel transformed into a Mirelurk when he got drunk. Butch landed at Harkness' feet on the steps, while Shrapnel managed to pin Sister to the ground and Flak groaned when he hit the floor.

It was obvious that everyone was in some way, drunk. Shrapnel was far gone. He was slurring a string of vulgarities, his face red and eyes bloodshot. Sister looked murderous even though he was swaying on his feet, his hands clenched into fists. Flak…just seemed sad. Less pissed off than either Shrapnel or Sister, but glowering. Probably the fact that he kept losing his drinks mellowed him. By Harkness' feet, Butch stared up at him, smirking. He looked entirely too pleased with the situation. Harkness couldn't understand why. The sneaky bastard was already bleeding from his lips.

For the second time that day, he held out his hand for the barber to take. Once again, the warm fingers curled around his hand and Butch pulled himself up. That reminded him. Had the barber already healed from getting beaten up by him? What bruises were the barber hiding under his layers of clothing? Not that he was concerned. _He was._ The idiot deserved it. _He did._ But he didn't want the kid to suddenly keel over from internal bleeding. He eyed that jacket and that jumpsuit underneath it, then realised he was caught staring. Butch smirked at Harkness like they were sharing some secret.

What was he supposed to do now? No. He _knew_ he was the chief of security so he had to keep the peace,_ technically_. But what did the barber expect him to do? Back him up? Was that why he told Harkness to come here? To make sure nobody killed him? Like hell he was going to get into another fight with the same sneaky bastard in less than 24 hours.

"How's your wiring doing, Chief?" He said that loudly, clearly and tactlessly in front of the other men. Harkness turned to the others who were still watching him. Good thing they didn't think anything was amiss. Just trouble causing trouble. Butch chuckled at his reaction. The little Vault scum. Harkness glared at said scum.

"Got any ideas, Harky boy?" Flak sighed. "I don't want to be stuck here all night."

"I say we beat the shit out of the kid," Sister offered, eyes glinting, fingers twitching.

"I say we gut you, sis," Shrapnel slurred, pushing himself up with some difficulty. All this untamed energy within an enclosed space like Rivet City couldn't be good.

"Hey, Chief," Butch started, his tongue peeking out to trace the cut on his lips. "Wanna mess with a Tunnel Snake?"

To hell with this.

"Carry on, men," Harkness commanded. He nudged Butch away. The smirk on the barber's face froze. Taking a seat on one of the steps, Harkness addressed them again. "Winner gets out of cleaning up this mess."

Sister didn't need to be told twice. He was already launching himself on Butch.


	7. Chapter 7

_Note: Here's a slightly longer chapter for you after a hellish week for me. It's a couple of hours late. But I hope it's worth it. Thanks, everyone! You guys are awesome. Onwards._

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**Trouble**  
**Chapter 7**

Lana would probably be mad at him for letting this happen. But knowing Lana, she'd actually find this entertaining. Then, be mad at him for letting this happen.

No one won. _As calculated. _Harkness hadn't even stated the conditions of winning and the men were already jumping at each other.

Was Rivet City so dull that men wanted to engage in pointless fights such as these? What the hell was all this for?

_A stolen bottle of scotch._ Right.

Well, it _was_ entertaining. He could admit that. It was interesting to figure out who would drop first. The first one was easy. _Shrapnel._ Because Shrapnel fought with his head a lot. Not that he thought out every action. Harkness knew how Shrapnel fought from clashing with him before. In fact, he had fought with every one of them before. Shrapnel had been impatient, arms flailing though they always hit their mark. He was also grabby. Grabbing at hair, clothes, and things off the ground just to land a hit. But when he was drunk, like he was, now, all that power in his arms went to his head and he shoved at everything with it. _Mirelurk style_. After failing to harm anyone for a while, he lay on the ground, almost collapsing but his mouth was still hurling insults to the ceiling. No one paid him any attention, except for Flak who asked him once if he was okay. To which he said something Harkness couldn't catch. _Something that ended with 'twat'_. Flak then got hauled into the ongoing fight and he ignored Shrapnel for the rest of the night. Unlike Shrapnel, Flak was patient. Obviously fit. Steady. Strong. When anyone shoved him, he barely budged. Mostly defended himself. Blocked punches and kicks. He shoved the men out of his way most of the time. When drunk, or semi-drunk rather, he seemed out of it. Clueless. Nonchalant. But he still managed to drop Butch with just an elbow to his back. And _that_ was impressive. He hadn't expected that move. Neither did Sister. Sister tilted his head, beckoning for Flak to come get him as his face split into a crazed grin. Sister had this air of someone who fought to kill. And when he had curled his hands around Butch or anyone, it was uneasy to watch. Because he had the tendency to take a little playing and then turn around to crack a few ribs. Not that this was playing. And not that Sister had cracked his ribs before. But Sister was simply a violent man. And violently religious as well. Sister backed away from Flak till he saw that his 'little Vault scum' had fallen and wouldn't get up even after kicking an ankle. Then after Sister uttered something that sounded like a short prayer, the remaining two banged out till someone stopped. Harkness didn't know who stopped first. _Irrelevant._ Just knew that no one won.

Especially not the barber. The kid was lying on his back, eyes shut and breathing softly; this picture was a sharp contrast to the sneaky bastard jumping around dodging punches some minutes ago. The barber's switchblade was still lodged in its usual place, untouched; Harkness' buckle still dangling from it. Harkness couldn't help noting that Butch fought with everything he had. Like this was the most consuming thing he had ever done. Like he grew up fighting. And it was evident that he derived some pleasure from this. The smirk never slipped from his face.

Was the Vault actually this twisted? Weren't Vaults supposed to be the safest places in the Wastes?

Apparently not. If the Vault had Butch, then most probably that Vault wasn't very safe.

And now that he was here, it meant that Rivet City wasn't very safe.

And that meant that Butch had become _his _problem.

Bullshit.

Sometime later, _2 hours 43 minutes 17 seconds,_ trouble stirred.

The barber groaned, coughed and groaned some more as he brought his hands to his face to peer at them. Apparently he didn't like what he saw because he wiped his palms on his thighs. When that was done, he rubbed his face, wincing when he found the bruise on his eyebrow. He cursed. He blinked a couple more times, _five_, before he scanned his surroundings and his eyes fell on Harkness still sitting on the steps.

He stared.

Harkness stared back.

All that delight the barber had while throwing punches was gone, replaced by a kind of confusion. Managing to somehow keep his focus on Harkness, he crawled over to him in a strangely graceful way, legs sliding behind him as he progressed nearer. The gaze never wavered. It locked onto some part of his face; _he couldn't tell what_ and wouldn't go away. When the barber was close enough, he leaned his back on the step Harkness was sitting on and scowled. This close, Harkness could see that he was banged up pretty badly. The bruise on his brow was a deep purple. He was bleeding from his lips, the blood trickling down his skin from two separate cuts. And that was coupled with whatever bruises he hid under his clothes. Barber was in pretty bad shape.

"You," Butch started, eyes narrowed as he pointed at Harkness. "Are an asshole." Right. Insightful. Barber deserved all the hurt he was feeling. "Why can't you just beat them up and shit?"

"So, I was supposed to fight them off for you. Is that it?" Butch shook his head in an exasperated gesture. Not a chance. Especially not after being jumped for no reason other than to bargain. No.

"What kinda security chief are you?" Butch accused. "Ain't you supposed to keep the peace or somethin'?" Harkness scanned the scene in front of him.

"It's peaceful now." Seeing that everyone who had a penchant for pain was currently indisposed, it had become quite peaceful in the stairwell.

"Damn," Butch said in a low voice. "You're really an android –"

"Listen kid. Shut your mouth about that." He glared at the petty criminal. The jabs at his android nature were starting to wear down his tolerance.

"Yeah? What you gonna do about it?" Butch smirked. "Fuck me up some?" He chuckled darkly. The kid seemed to have forgotten that he was the more injured one between the two of them. Harkness wanted to throw him off the ship. Cuff him and throw him over. Butch faced him, that gaze still on him. Heated. And a little intense. He didn't like it. And then for some reason that Harkness couldn't figure out, Butch _relaxed_.

He could see the way Butch's shoulders lost their tension as he rested his head on the step, eyes focused on him. The movement bared his neck in a fluid vulnerable gesture that was unsettling. _This was trouble. Trouble wasn't vulnerable._ Even the smirk pasted on his lips lost a bit of its annoying edge. When he spoke again, his tone was _calm_, almost persuasive no matter the bluntness of his speech.

"Sure, you're wired. But why you gotta be an asshole?"

Harkness didn't know how to answer that question. Not that the question warranted an answer. Just that he couldn't form a logical response.

Sneaky bastard didn't make sense at all.

And it didn't make sense how Harkness felt a wave of guilt.

Yes, the barber deserved what he got. But maybe, Harkness shouldn't have let it get too rough.

_What kinda security chief are you?_

Butch was still watching him but the gaze had softened to some degree. Harkness observed the awkward way he was resting. From the looks of it, the barber was definitely experiencing some discomfort._ Understatement._ Other than the bruises that were visible, he couldn't exactly pinpoint the injuries. _Hitched breathing signalled possible bruising over his ribs. Awkward pose signalled a possible wounded shoulder and ankle…_

Couldn't be helped. Trouble or not, Harkness was still a security chief. And because of that…he gave a damn.

He reached into the inner pocket of his armour to offer a Stimpak to the barber. _All personnel must carry at least one and/or more form of medication at all times in case of emergency._ Butch stared at the Stimpak before he reached out and took it, his fingers brushing Harkness' palm. He rolled back his left sleeve, sliding the material underneath his arm gadget easily and revealed his forearm. Like a professional at self-medication, the barber plunged the needle right into the flesh without any hesitation. He barely flinched.

"Was the Vault like this?" Harkness found himself asking.

"Worse. Fuckers in there actually knew how to use their fists," was the answer said in an offhanded manner. Harkness filed that answer away for later, should he ever need such information. There was silence for a long time, _15 minutes 34 seconds, _before Butch pushed himself up to stretch. He limped to a pile of bottles at the corner of the stairwell. With ease, he picked up one bottle from the pile and limped back to Harkness. Harkness knew what the bottle contained. _Flak's scotch: found._ He just couldn't figure out why the barber needed to steal this bottle of alcohol. Didn't he say he got his drinks free?

Sneaky bastard didn't make sense at all.

Tipping the bottle over his open mouth, Butch gulped the drink, his lips not touching the rim of the bottle. He winced when he swallowed. Harkness couldn't tell if that was from the taste or from the pain at having alcohol on his cuts. From the flash of pain across his face, he predicted that it was the latter.

"Fuck," Butch hissed. "Tastes like piss." Enlightening. Butch sneered at the bottle. Despite that, he still managed to swallow two more mouthfuls, grimacing with each swallow. "You don't drink, do you, Chief?" he asked but without waiting for an answer, Butch was crawling to Shrapnel's unconscious form to place the bottle of scotch carefully beside him. He moved Shrapnel's hand to curl around the bottle. Sneaky bastard. If Flak saw that, he would think Shrapnel was the one who had his scotch all along. Actually, that would be a smart thing to do. He doubted Flak would lash out at Shrapnel.

"Barber –"

"Butch, Chief. Get it right."

"Get Doctor Preston to look at your injuries."

"No fuckin' way. Preston's got slimy hands." Done with incriminating Shrapnel, Butch wiped his hands on his pants and faced Harkness. "Y'know. He's curious 'bout you." What? "Says so in his records."

"You accessed his terminal?" Bullshit.

"Sure. Man, he's a creepy fuck. You should read his shit." Butch smirked. "What? You didn't think I can hot wire tin cans?" The smirk widened. "You better watch your ass, Chief."


	8. Chapter 8

_Note: Hello all! Here's another chapter. There are major spoilers ahead...then again, you've been spoiler-ed since chapter 1. Actually, I tried to be vague, kinda avoided giving away spoilers especially for this chapter. But __**LillyWhiteRosePetals **__made me realise that in doing so, I would have potentially ruined the whole storyline! ACK! So thank you so much Lilly! You're awesome! Check Lilly out at (fanfiction .net/u/2353266/) Thanks again! _

_So, ahem, MAJOR spoilers ahead. And MAJOR plot. _

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**Trouble  
Chapter 8**

"Is there a problem, Chief Harkness?" Preston greeted him, as soon as he stepped into the Rivet City clinic. The good doctor was already much too cheerful in the early morning. Alert. Chipper. It was _2 months 5 hours 13 minutes 40 seconds_ since his last check up. He nodded in greeting as he was beckoned into the small, brightly-lit room that smelt strongly of medication. He couldn't figure out what chems were floating in the air but he noted that the settler, _Richardson, 30 years old, mercenary_, was still lying down on the gurney. How long had he been unconscious? _An estimated 3 months 29 days_. Preston faced him, buttoning up his lab coat and arranging the stethoscope around his neck. All business. As Harkness stopped before the doctor, he focused on his objective: _figure out what Preston was curious about. _

For all he knew, the barber could be toying with him. That possibility wasn't such a long stretch seeing as the barber was a sneaky bastard. But because he _was_ a sneaky bastard, the idea that he had been sneaking into the doctor's terminal and seeing secret information was entirely possible as well.

Still, there was something 'off' about Preston's gaze on him. Curious. And slightly… slimy.

Not that he was bothered with anyone being curious about him. Just that he wanted to know for sure if the doctor knew about his wired side. If that was the case, he had to make sure to hide that fact.

"Got a little roughed up," he answered. Preston tilted his head, staring at him intently through polished lens as he penned something down onto the clipboard he held. Whatever it was he wrote looked like a string of gibberish that Preston seemed to understand. Harkness didn't. Gesturing for him to take a seat on the examination table, Preston worked on his terminal. It was already logged in so Harkness couldn't catch the password, but he got a clear view of his examination report on the terminal.

_Harkness, male, age: 35, Head of Security_

And he didn't know what would make Preston curious.

Because according to the report, Harkness was in '_perfect health'_.

...Did the sneaky bastard just trick him into getting a check-up? Bullshit.

In front of him, Preston finally turned away from the terminal with that happy Preston the Good Doctor smile that he always slipped into when he could use his skills as a doctor. He ordered Harkness to take off his armour and shirt. Harkness complied, resignedly unbuckling his armour and pulling off his shirt. He was already here. Might as well be nice to the doctor. The bruise on his chest, given to him by the barber, mocked at him.

Maybe he _did_ need a check up if he could easily believe barbers who lived to cause trouble.

"Trouble?" Preston said, zeroing on that mark and starting his work. Perceptive.

"Yeah. But nothing I can't handle." Right.

The last time he saw the kid, he was sitting beside him on the stairs in front of the Muddy Rudder. It was a surprisingly relaxing atmosphere even with the injured men lying on the floor. The barber was a little roughed up but breathing. A little tired but awake. A little injured but still whistling that damned brainwashing music as they waited for the other men to wake up. 1 hour, _16 minutes 7 seconds,_ of brainwashing tunes. How he could still whistle with cuts on his lips was a feat. How Shrapnel, Flak and Sister could sleep through all that noise was impressive. Sister was the first to wake, groaning as he clutched the back of his neck. Then, less than 15 minutes later, he was pushing himself up and walking to the stairs as though he was going to his own hanging. He grunted at the both of them in what was supposed to be a greeting as he passed. Flak was the next to wake, his eyes blinking open like he had been switched on. Harkness had to admit that even _he_ didn't just 'wake' like that. Flak could pass off as a different kind of machine. He gazed at the ceiling for a while, _10 minutes 18 seconds_, before calling out Shrapnel's name through all that whistling. No response from his friend. And when he saw the bottle in Shrapnel's grasp, he merely patted his friend's cheek in an attempt to wake him up. Just three times. Uncharacteristically gentle. Shrapnel's first words upon waking were a string of curses. Flak, then, promised Harkness he'd clean the mess.

Harkness didn't want to leave the barber unsupervised on the steps but seeing that the bulk of the damage had already been done, he stood up. The whistling stopped as Butch looked up at him, lips still pouted. He stood up as well. Chuckling, Butch limped over to the Muddy Rudder and entered, looking back to see if Harkness was going to follow. Then when he realised that he wasn't, he said 'See you later, Chief', as though they were planning to meet again later. Which meant that Butch was probably going to cause more trouble later.

Yeah. Nothing he couldn't handle.

"Open your mouth," Preston directed him and he obeyed. He wondered what Preston saw when he looked down his throat like that. What did anyone see when they examined him? A bunch of wires? Apparently nothing out of the ordinary as Preston instructed Harkness to close his mouth and moved on to shining a light in his eyes. All Harkness knew was that he had nothing to worry about. The doctor hadn't suspected a thing, and wouldn't suspect anything at all about his android-ness. Harkness inhaled sharply at the feel of the chestpiece of a stethoscope on his skin. Cold. Like ice. The whole process felt like a normal tune-up whenever he returned to the Bureau after a mission. The doctor's calculating, observant gaze. Hands covered with a pair of gloves. Clinical, practised motions checking for his heartbeats.

No. This was nothing like a tune-up. Back when he was still a _slave_, he didn't have a pulse. Not only that, Preston was a doctor. Zimmer was a pervert who got off on dominating synths. Good fucking riddance. His obvious enjoyment at watching androids de-synching during field tests was a step above professional. It was sickening. Just like the rest of the bastards in the Commonwealth. There was something perverse in the way they manufactured androids. Something perverse in the way the sick bastard told him that Harkness, _designation A3-21,_ was different from other synths. _Others were acceptable losses. Older models. Easily replicated. But A3-21 was…special. Clever. Irreplaceable. The most advanced synthetic humanoid Zimmer had ever developed. It would take years to recreate him._

Bullshit.

Shouldn't have let him on this damn boat.

"You seem to be at full health," Preston told him, after noting that the bruise on his chest had mostly faded. Thanks, doc. He already knew that. The words _all systems in operation_ flashed brightly at him behind his eyelids. "No addiction, no rads. You're in perfect condition."

"Thanks, Preston." Harkness pulled on his shirt and armour. This pointless check-up took up 12 minutes 34 seconds of his time. Who knew what trouble the barber could start when Harkness was occupied like this? Well, technically the barber shouldn't be able to because he was supposed to be resting. Still, he managed to waste some of his time and that was bullshit.

"Not a problem." The calculating, clinical gaze swept over him again. Preston dismissed him and moved to his desk. Then whatever he saw on his desk made him call Harkness back. "I don't know if you've heard about this. But some time ago, there was a hoax circulating..."

"Hoax?"

He didn't expect Preston to play him a holotape. He didn't expect to hear what he heard.

It was a plea for help on behalf of an escaped android. The android needed a trusted doctor to alter his identity.

Thing was:_ that_ android had been him. _Was_ him. Before he got all the help he needed. Before he became Harkness.

True that the plea was 'obsolete' now. He no longer needed that help. But hearing it caused something unpleasant to stir in him. Like he was still a slave. Like he was still not truly free. When the tape ended, Preston handed it to him, pressing it firmly into the palm of his hand.

"I wouldn't mind meeting him but the android never came," Preston said. Harkness merely nodded. What _could_ he say?

As he stepped out of the clinic, the weight of the holotape was heavy in his pocket, bumping on his thigh with each step he took. He felt slightly unsynchronised. He felt like he needed to be around… Butch right now.

He needed to say something to him. What? He didn't know. Just that he realised that Butch was right; Preston was curious about him, about the android he was. And that on this boat, the barber was the only one who knew what he was. And _that_ was somehow… crucial right now.

He headed for the Muddy Rudder.

As he entered the marketplace to get to the stairwell, he noticed that Flak and Shrapnel weren't at their shop. Probably still cleaning the mess in front of the bar. Seagrave Holmes was not at his shop as well. Probably hitting on Vera again. Bannon was chatting with Cindy Cantelli. When he passed by Gary's galley, he saw James, Tammy and Angela eating.

He stopped in his steps when he saw the barber there.

Butch hadn't noticed Harkness, as he talked to Gary while twirling his switchblade. He was calm. Relaxed. He had cleaned up the blood on his face but the bruise on his brow was still there. From the way he was standing, it was evident that he was still feeling discomfort from some of his injuries; he was leaning heavily against the counter. Why wasn't he at the bar? Shouldn't the sneaky bastard be resting?

Before he could walk to Butch, the door that led to the middle deck opened and shut. Toby entered the marketplace, eyes scanning the area. When he spotted the galley, he strode purposefully to it. He reached his destination.

Then he punched Butch.


	9. Chapter 9

_Hello all. I apologise greatly for the delay in the chapter. Had a very, very busy week and an even busier weekend. Plus, my schedule has been changed again. Urgh. Anyway. _  
_Here's a longer chapter, probably the longest one I have done so far. There's a lot of dialogue in this. Also, the rest of the fic is still in its very early drafting stages, means I gotta write them up proper. So, I can't promise the next chapters will be on schedule but I will try my best to put one chapter up each week or so still. That said, you guys are very inspiring and encouraging. And because of ALL your awesome comments, I have decided I might want to add some 'things' into the story and work harder on my writing. So, thank you very much. Sorry again for the delay. I hope this chapter is worth the wait. If it isn't, you can always tell me. Now, onwards, love. _

* * *

**Trouble**  
**Chapter 9**

This was not a good position to be in.

Standing in between two furious men in the middle of a fight. Except that only one of them was fighting.

What surprised him was that he was pushing Toby back. Not Butch.

As soon as he saw Toby's fist hit its target, _Butch's jaw_, Harkness had come between the both of them, shoving them away from each other. Toby swatted at his hand, which made him face his subordinate instead of the barber. His right hip touched the side of the Galley's counter, as he turned his body to keep an eye on both of them, while pressing his palm against Toby. Two other guards stationed in the area closed in on them, one pulling Toby, the other trying to do the same for Butch. Butch shrugged the guard's grip off him. Then, he just stood still, a smirk slowly forming on his face. That smirk was devoid of its usual playfulness. This was nastier. That, coupled with his blade twirling, made him look every bit of Trouble he had the potential to be.

The switchblade was going through a routine he had never seen before, the weapon twirling in very fast twists around Butch's fingers. The buckle, _his_ buckle, tied at the end of the handle with a short strip of leather, trailed behind, following through the motion. After every twist of the blade at the juncture of his thumb and forefinger, Butch flicked onto the safety. Switching it off. Then on. Then off again. And after every few flicks at the safety, _three very fast ones_, he whipped the blade out. It glinted in the light before slicing the air as Butch slid it shut again. Quickly. Skilfully. Violently. All he saw was the blur of shiny metal as it twirled. Like a dance. A demented one. Butch was clearly, talented.

The only thing positive about this scene was that the switchblade was still in Butch's grip and not stuck anywhere in Toby's anatomy.

"Tobias." No sense in stalling this further. "Knock it off," he commanded. Like talking sense ever worked on furious men.

"Boss," Toby said, trying to reel in his anger when speaking; he was stuttering his words slightly. "The little shit is using Lana–"

"Hey, man," Butch interrupted from behind Harkness. 'If my babe wants to, I'm gonna let her use me, okay."

"She isn't yours, you piece of shit."

"Yeah?" There was a dark chuckle. "You sure about that?"

Toby lunged at Butch but was stopped by Harkness' hand against his torso. He could feel that Toby was definitely lighter than Butch; he staggered a little when Harkness pushed him back. Flighty. Unstable. It felt like he could shove Toby easy.

"I'll tear you to pieces." Toby was sputtering now, his lips pulled into a snarl.

"You don't know who you're messin' with…" Butch hissed in a very controlled tone. There was something wild in his eyes as he stared past Harkness at Toby. Toby scowled, glaring at Butch with murder in his eyes, pushing forward again. The dumb fuck. Couldn't he see that Butch could tear him apart easy? Even injured, there was no doubt that Butch could cause Toby some serious damage.

"Barber." Harkness faced Butch, waiting for his eyes to rest on him instead of Toby. When they did, he said "Shut the hell up."

"The fuck? I didn't do shit." Butch frowned, staring at Harkness like he was getting this all wrong. He wasn't. Butch's continuous talking, his voice, presence, anything involving him was just goading Toby. Harkness held that stare for some time, _1 minute 57 seconds_, because Butch didn't really want to back down. He seemed to want to hit Toby, but if he truly wanted to, he would have done so already. He stared till Butch gave in. "Fuck. Fine. Whatever." The twirling lessened in ferocity and speed, but the blade still followed its same path around his fingers.

Against his palm, Toby was struggling with his tolerance.

"You're having problems with Lana?" Harkness asked. He already knew the answer. He wasn't about to go into the details of why this was happening, why there was this pointless bullshit. He just knew that Lana and Toby had issues and Butch was irrelevant in this equation. Just…was Toby aware of that? Toby focused on him, then. He nodded. Good. This made things much easier. "Then you know _he's_ not your problem." Yeah. Butch was Harkness' problem. "So, knock it off. And calm down."

Toby's eyes still narrowed. Nostrils flared. But at least he wasn't clenching his jaw anymore. He seemed to be processing the words as he looked at his superior, but not quite getting it. Harkness increased the pressure on him and pushed him back slightly. Toby faltered. Then he sighed before nodding.

"I'll talk to her," he said. The fight in him dissipated somewhat; he lowered his gaze. Sensing that Toby wasn't going to try to hit Butch again, Harkness dropped his hand.

"In that case, tell Lana she'll be taking over your duties for the rest of the day."

"No–" Harkness shot him a warning glare, promptly shutting him up. "Yes, Boss."

Toby gave Butch one last nasty look then stomped back to the middle deck. Harkness saw him unbuckling his armour as he pushed open the door. The guard who had pulled him back followed closely. He dismissed the other guard, who saluted him and resumed making rounds in the marketplace. He also dismissed the small crowd that had formed, made up of the others who were in the marketplace,_ Cindy, Bannon, James, Tammy and Angela._ As the excitement ended, everyone returned to their daily schedules.

Well, that was one thing settled.

He turned to see Butch trying to wipe blood off his face using the back of his hand. Thing was, there wasn't any. What could he say? Toby was incompetent at fighting. When Toby took a swing at Butch, he pushed his shoulder out too much; his punch didn't hold much power and Butch, obviously, could take far worse than that. In fact, Lana could knock Toby out easy but that was because he would probably let her. No. Toby's strength lay with the speed in gun handling. Very efficient. He took the least amount of time reloading anything. Very precise. Very decisive. And very indecisive at everything else.

"You're an asshole to everyone," Butch pointed with the handle of his switchblade, his face an odd mix of awe and disgust.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Straight to the point.

"I was gonna get somethin' to eat," was Butch's answer, said in a matter-of-fact way, sounding as though Harkness should have figured this out. He did. And this wasn't the answer he wanted. "Then pretty boy tried to jump me."

"Why aren't you resting in the Muddy Rudder?" Why was he still causing trouble when he was supposed to be resting?

"Chief. Don't you listen?" Butch frowned and peered up at him. "I wanna eat." With conversation skills like this, it was no wonder the barber used his fists to talk.

As if on cue, Gary pushed a bottle of purified water and a red plate with a Lurk cake on it across the counter to them. Gary smiled his boyish smile, the very warm one that lit up his face.

"Your order, Tunnel Snake," he addressed Butch. Tunnel Snake? "And I have to say, you handled that well, Hark. Great that you're in charge of security. Makes me sleep better at night…" Gary added cheerfully, his voice trailing off as he walked back to the stove. Did he mean that or was he just trying to kiss ass? With Gary, he probably meant it. Then he returned to them ushering them to take a seat. They both didn't. Harkness watched Gary's back as he shuffled to the oven and checked whatever it was in there. When he nudged the stove door open, the smell of baking wafted out. Smelled good. _Blamco Mac and Cheese._ Beside him, Butch poked into the Lurk cake with his fork; there was a 'tink' when the metal pierced through the cake and hit the plate.

Butch hunched over the plate as he leaned against the counter. His blade was tucked back onto his belt. With the fork, he was dividing the cake in half, _one 'half' bigger than the other_. Then he picked up one of the halves and took a bite. Honestly, Butch did look like he was hungry as he chewed on the cake. Mouth closed. His eyes flicked up to Harkness when he swallowed. With Toby gone, he saw that Butch's bruise was still purplish and there were faint scars on his lips which stretched whenever he opened his mouth. He wasn't smirking now. He appeared tired. He should damn well be. Being beat on multiple times in one day, _less than 24 hours_, would exhaust even the best of men. _Even an android_. It was about damn time the sneaky bastard healed up.

"Why didn't you hit him back?" he asked.

"Promised Lana I won't." Right. Why couldn't he figure that out? Harkness continued staring at him as he ate.

How the hell was he supposed to deal with this? Trouble usually came in the form of busted pipes or random raider or mutie attacks, but what happened when all this bullshit came from just one person who couldn't keep anything to himself? And to think, a few minutes ago, _19 minutes 40 seconds_, he had been trying to find the barber to… do something. To discuss the holotape. Why did he want to do that? Illogical. Was he going rogue?

As the meal progressed, Butch lost most of the tension he had. He relaxed, leaning fully on the counter. He was obviously enjoying his food; occasionally, the tip of his tongue ran over his lips to catch any crumbs. Then when he was done, he dabbed at the remaining crumbs left on the plate with his fingers and popped them into his mouth. Neatly. By this time, Butch was watching Harkness with less suspicion, eyeing his physique as he drank from the bottle the way he did, with his lips away from the rim.

"You're going back to the Muddy Rudder," Harkness said, the words sounding more like a question than a statement.

"Sure," Butch replied. He set the empty bottle onto the counter. "Why?"

"We're going the same way." Butch straightened up. "Walk." He stared at Harkness like he had said something far too intelligent for him to understand.

"You're walkin' me back?" Butch started walking. Harkness followed just a little way behind. The holotape bumped his thigh with each step, reminding him of its presence.

"I'm escorting you." The snake at the back of the jacket Butch wore seemed to be mocking him. He was about to observe it a little more intently but Butch turned to him, his face in disbelief. He continued walking. Backwards. How Butch could walk backwards without stumbling into anything was probably another one of his 'talents'.

"I didn't do shit."

"Right." He heard this before. Butch didn't need to 'do shit' to cause trouble in Rivet City. He just had to breathe.

"Damn, Chief. If you wanna get closer to me, all you gotta do is ask," he joked but wasn't smiling. He faced forwards again, resuming the journey with Harkness.

Butch walked alongside him like he was used to this procedure. Like he was used to being escorted by security. He kept both hands out of his pockets, matching Harkness' pace even though he was still limping slightly. No sudden moves. Just walking calmly. Butch didn't need to be ordered to pause at each door. He waited for Harkness to twist the handle. Harkness pulled it open; Butch walked through then waited for him to close the door behind them. They both walked down the corridor, past the doors to reach the stairwell. They marched down the stairs to the bottom floor, their steps echoing noisily in the stairwell. He knew Butch's boots were stolen because they clomped with each step, like the shoes were too big for him, _one size bigger_, and Butch had tied the laces tightly around his ankles. They didn't meet anyone on the way. Uneventful. Apparently, Shrapnel and Flak were also done with cleaning up the mess they all left the previous night. They weren't in front of the bar. The place didn't look any cleaner, just a little less dirty.

At the entrance of the Muddy Rudder, Belle Bonny lifted her head from her sweeping, watching the both of them as they approached. Butch smiled at her. A normal, good kid smile. The kind that could trick unsuspecting victims into thinking that he was innocent. That smile made Belle stand up and lean against the broom. She fixed him with a critical eye. Then fixed Harkness with the same.

"Is Butchie in trouble again, Harkness?" she asked him, her tone indicating that she already knew the answer to the question. He nodded anyway. Good. She also knew the barber was Trouble. Bonny picked up her broom then returned to the counter, her movements indicating that she probably had been waiting for 'Butchie' for some time. "At least he hasn't gotten any new bruises this time," she added. Yeah. Toby was a little pathetic with hand to hand combat. Turning to Butch, he saw that the barber had been watching him. Openly. Curiously. Intensely. Closely.

"Is it possible for you to stay out of trouble for the rest of the day?" he broke the sudden, _baseless_, awkwardness, not expecting any answer he wanted to hear.

"Fine." Butch shrugged as he walked further into the bar. He faced Harkness. "But what am I supposed to do here? Work on my needlepoint or somethin'?" He smirked. The playfulness was back in this smirk. It was slightly better than its nastier version.

"_Stay out of trouble_, barber," he stressed. The smirk widened.

He left the bar.

He headed to the bridge tower. He had to change his armour. Shower. Shave. Reschedule. Check up on Lana. And Toby. Check up on Flak and Shrapnel. Figure out what to do with the holotape. Figure out how he was going to deal with Trouble when he left the containment which was the bar but _that_ was irrelevant at the moment.

And the day had only just begun.

Bullshit.


	10. Chapter 10

_Hey all. Thank you for all your reviews/comments. I truly appreciate the support. And I realise that I've been spelling Belle Bonny wrong. *facepalms* Oh! And I notice that we can specify characters in the fic description now. Awesome. Another chapter is up. Yeah. This has gotta be the flightiest chapter ever in terms of pacing. (Am not proud of it.) That said, I hope this chapter does not disappoint you. If it does, I apologise. Do tell me, though. As always, onwards, awesome people._

_Update: Thank you, __**Xiggie **__for catching the mistakes I made! Thanks to you, I've edited the whole chapter and now I'm more satisfied with it. Yeah!_

* * *

**Trouble  
Chapter 10**

He headed to the marketplace with the same small cut on his chin he received from shaving.

And he had tried to be extra careful this time too, to no avail. Did Pinkerton wire him so that his hands jerked in that way each time he put the razor close to the skin? To make him bleed? To make him feel more of a man, _less of a machine_? It wasn't working. Cutting himself while shaving seemed to be a routine that only _androids_ would follow without fail. He returned to the bridge tower. His bed was still occupied. No sign of Lana. Or Toby. Harkness dumped his belongings into his footlocker and made his way to Flak and Shrapnel's.

It was when he was turning a corner on the middle deck that he caught a flash of black and blue. Bullshit. Barber better not be out and running again. If he was, _hell_, he was going to haul him back to the Rudder. He chased after that blur and turned the corner. Nothing. No trace of anyone. He observed the stillness in the air, scanned the corridor, and noted the closed doors, _4 of them_. He reached for the handle of one, twisted it and pulled. Locked. He reached for the next door. Locked. The next ones. All locked. No one here. Had he been seeing things? Not possible. He was a fucking android. He stayed there for some time, _exactly 5 minutes_, before walking out of the area.

The sneaky bastard got him thinking he was waiting around every corner.

During his morning activities, Flak and Shrapnel had finally opened shop. S_omewhat_. Shrapnel was lying down on the couch they had at the back of the shop sleeping, his right hand serving as a pillow as he curled up in a foetal position. He didn't snore, though he seemed like someone who would. There was a dark purple bruise around his left eye. Flak and Shrapnel were definitely bound by some aura. Because in contrast to Shrapnel's calm state, Flak seemed a little agitated. His motions were jerky. Probably not enough sleep. Flak looked up from laying down the merchandise to nod at Harkness.

"Harky boy. Found my scotch," he reported. Then, he returned to laying out the guns in a semi-neat grid format according to the size of the bullets. Said bottle of scotch was sitting beside their cash register. A little more than halfway full.

"Thanks for cleaning the mess," Harkness said. Flak nodded again in response. He glanced at his friend then returned to his work, ignoring Harkness.

Well, that was one thing settled.

With Flak in no hurry to make conversation, Harkness headed for the decks to begin his rounds.

It was evening when he stepped out onto the Rivet City Bridge, feeling calmer than he had in days. The sky was a dark shade of blue now, _R22 G38 B34_.

Quiet. Peaceful. He felt his system sleep, charging itself.

Other than the problems in the morning, today was trouble-free so far, _for 9 hours 16 minutes 7 seconds_. Things were back on schedule. He knew where everyone should be and what everyone was doing. Mostly. He still hadn't seen any sign of Lana. Or Toby. He had expected her to search for him to complain or nag. Or to rant to him about Toby. But Lana simply wasn't around. Where the hell was she? No matter. She was probably still talking to Toby. It might take some time to get through to him. It might take some time to get through to the both of them. As far as he was concerned, talking would be the best thing right now. It would certainly solve most problems in the best non-violent way. Everyone was too damn trigger-happy these days. People discharging weapons on this boat made him nervous.

And the holotape made him nervous too.

In the quiet, he fingered the tape resting in his pocket. It was jagged along an edge. The tape had been sitting in his pocket since the moment he received it. And he still didn't know what to do with it.

When he was working for the Synth Retention Bureau as a synth hunter, each mission began with a holotape. Much like the one resting in his hand. Each holotape informed him of, _at the very least_, an escaped android's designation and their destination. Androids, for some reason, had a tendency to inform their 'superiors' of their escape plans. Probably this procedure was hard wired into an android's core;_ he didn't have that information_. But the escape plans within that holotape would clue him in on where his target was, what they were aiming for and what they were doing. On average, he could take approximately 2 weeks to find any runner and bring them back. And with that capture, the data contained within that holotape would be transferred into a supercomputer. And the holotape _erased_. Just like the runners he hunted. He twitched when memories flooded his mind, but it was pointless to try to stop them. His memories played anyway, having been triggered.

In his mind were images of the runners. Their speeches. _Self-determination is not a malfunction. _Their begging for him to be... _human_. And he simply... _wasn't_.

It took just an activation code, a string of letters and numbers and the light faded in their eyes; they dropped to the ground then sprang back up. Erased. Inhuman.

Now, this tape in his hands… this had been _his_ plea of help. And he was now free, _to a certain extent_. Just what should he do with the tape?

Behind him, the door to the stairwell creaked open. Harkness slipped the tape back into his pocket and turned around to greet his visitor. Lana, he assumed.

Only it wasn't.

It was a bottle sailing into his face. He caught it with precision just as it brushed the tip of his nose. What the hell?

"Hey, Chief. How's your wiring doing?"

Bullshit.

"Didn't I tell you to stay out of trouble for the rest of the day?" Butch zipped his jacket, all the way up, as he walked to Harkness, his footsteps clomping on the metal floor. He wasn't limping anymore. He seemed to be cheerfully ignoring the question as he leaned against the railing beside Harkness, _too close_, still wearing that same smirk on his face. The playful one. Not the nasty one. It was annoying how the sneaky bastard was unaware of the possible harm throwing that bottle could've caused him. Facing Harkness, the smirk widened.

"It's already tomorrow, y'know." It was also annoying how the barber had a point. It was past midnight, _0137 hours_. Bullshit.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Barber was evidently, a bit too awake in the night. In the dark, the cuts on his lips couldn't be seen and the bruise on his eyebrow had lightened. Butch popped up the collar of his jacket and glanced at the sky. In that small movement, he frowned then immediately turned to Harkness.

"Talkin'." He slid his fingers around the neck of the bottle in Harkness' grip, pushing away some, _three_, of his fingers. That contact was warm in contrast to the cold wetness of the bottle. Then he skilfully uncapped the bottle with a 'chink'. "Drink up, Chief," he said, slipping the bottle cap into his pocket. Did the barber just steal his bottle cap? What was he even doing with a bottle of…

"…Nuka-cola?"

"What? You don't drink alcohol," Butch replied in an accusatory tone. Butch uncapped his own bottle and drank, the dark liquid flowing into his open mouth like a fountain. His eyes were still on Harkness. Was Butch bribing him? Was that it? Butch swallowed. Licked his lips. "Uh…this morning…" he started. The smirk on his face faded. "I would've cut the fucker y'know but...you...yeah... Badass." So, this was some form of gratitude? Butch stared at him then. Like the way he usually stared at him, but more engaging somehow. His face was fixed into a very serious expression. No hint of mischief or trouble at all. The left side of his lip was still pulled, giving the impression of a faint smile. But that was just Butch's perpetual _natural_ smile. Butch's gaze seemed to urge Harkness to understand. He did. But to be stared at by the barber like _that_, was a little unnerving.

"Right." He turned to the bottle. He put the cold rim of the bottle to his lips and took a sip. Cold. Sweet. The drink's fizz prickled his tongue. Refreshing. He took another sip. Beside him, Butch resumed drinking. He let out a hiss of satisfaction after each gulp.

Neither of them said much. Not after a long time, _3 hours 39 minutes 54 seconds_. Not until both their bottles were empty and were standing side by side by the wall behind them. Butch had perched himself onto the railing and was facing the ship, ankles locked as he rested his feet on the lower rung of the railing. His hands were gripping the railing, fingers curled around the metal. He was whistling the same brainwashing tune but out here it sounded less annoying. More calm. Less demented.

The sky had darkened into _R17 G31 B27_. It would be dawn soon.

It was strangely peaceful. And this companionship was… it was alright.

He didn't get it.

"So, Chief," Butch broke the silence. "Preston's holotape ain't on his desk." Bullshit.

"You broke into his clinic?"

"Hey, man. I gotta get meds," he answered nonchalantly, evidently seeing nothing wrong with his actions. Petty criminal. "Did he give the tape to you?" Butch asked, looking at him with a curious gaze.

"That's…" And Harkness had no idea what to say. What _could_ he say? To a certain extent, he would very much like to talk freely about his wired nature. And Butch was the only one out here who knew about it, so why not. But this was _Butch_. He supposed Butch could be trusted somewhat; Lana trusted him. So did Shrapnel and Flak. And Gary. But with such a delicate issue...he couldn't possibly…Was this even a good idea? "None of your business, barber," he said instead. Butch gazed down at him from his perch on the railing. He might be a little disappointed, but that wasn't showing clearly. He was staring at Harkness again. The intense, open stare. After some moments, _3 minutes 23 seconds_, he spoke.

"Sure, man." Butch faced the ship again.

There was no more conversation till dawn. Butch slipped off the railing in a fluid move. Strangely graceful. As he unzipped his jacket, he faced Harkness and said 'See you later, Chief'. He smirked. How a smirk could be warm, he didn't know. But this particular one was. Almost friendly. He watched Butch enter the stairwell before his focus fell on the two empty Nuka-Cola bottles.

Barber left trash for him to dispose.

Bullshit.


	11. Chapter 11

_Hello, you. Here's a new chapter. More plot ahead. And it's going to be increasing as we go along. Dun dun dunnnn! Hope you enjoy it._

_But uh... So, I need some help. As you know, I'm still in the process of writing this fic. (Still have a lot to go. This is starting to be quite long, really.) I just have some things I am unsure about. Well, just one thing at the moment. And it bugs me to no end. I keep picturing the scene I'm writing, and I keep getting stuck on that one little itty bitty thing which becomes a huge, major problem. It just kills the mood, y'know._

_**Question:**__ Can you take off a pip-boy? The Fallout wiki says it can't be taken off and it's sealed with some biometric seal. So, if you can't take a pip-boy off, then how do Vault kids change their clothes? Or shower, even? Hmmmm...?_

_If anyone can answer me I'll be totally grateful to you._  
_That said... Thank you! Stay awesome, all! Onwards!_

* * *

**Trouble  
Chapter 11**

"Food. Now." Lana was probably the only person who could threaten anyone with breakfast. She dragged him down to the marketplace with the strict pull of her gaze. He wasn't affected by it; he followed because it was amusing to see her like that. Puzzled. Uncertain. She wasn't usually like that when she was trying to confront him. At the moment, it was like she wasn't even sure if she was supposed to be confronting him. _She was._ She stabbed at the noodles and lifted a forkful to her lips to shove into her mouth. She pointed at him with the sharp points of a rusty fork; her gaze on him was just as sharp. That and the soft bulge of food in her mouth made the scene more intimidating. After a deep swallow, she accused him. "You and Butchie are scheming."

Right.

There were so many things, _three things,_ wrong with that statement. Firstly, there was no 'Harkness and Butch' in any collective form whatsoever. Secondly, he wasn't the scheming type. The barber was, probably. But not Harkness. Thirdly, logic didn't allow it. If Lana had thought a little deeper, she would realise that if they _had_ been scheming, it would entail Butch _planning_ to get punched by Toby. And that wasn't likely. Butch didn't seem like _that_ much of an idiot, no matter how happily he jumped into fights. Also, Harkness wouldn't let any of his guards resort to violence. A bit hypocritical of him when he had just beaten up the same barber a couple of nights back. But nobody should get beaten up multiple times within 24 hours, no matter how much they deserved it. And well… To be beat up by the likes of Toby would add insult to injury. Across the table, Lana chewed on her noodles, still suspicious.

"No," he answered simply. Lana raised an eyebrow at the non-confession.

"But you made me take over Toby's duties," she whined except with a growl.

"You didn't do said duties." She didn't. His second-in-command didn't take over Toby's duties like he commanded. He had found the other guard that Toby was usually assigned with, _Grant Peters, 19 years old,_ doing his rounds alone. So, actually, she didn't have a right to question him because she was the one who had been missing in action for a good part of yesterday. _Approximately 10 hours unaccounted for._

"Come on, Hark. The ship's safe from trouble." He scoffed. No, Lana. It wasn't. Lana gave him a glare and stuffed another forkful of noodles into her mouth. How she could make that move look like it was a threat was amazing. After that mouthful was finished, she finally explained why Toby had punched Butch. This conversation with Lana was personal, of course. Not authorised information. Nothing to do with the ship and duties and regulations. Lana was speaking to him as a confidant. It wasn't a complicated story. Apparently, Toby had overheard Vera and her talking about the barber's skills; she didn't elaborate what and he didn't want to know. She added that she had been 'just teasing' the confused bastard. Right. Confused or not, the bastard had punched Butch because of that 'teasing'. A weak ass punch was still a punch. Both Toby and Lana had talked about their relationship instead of doing their duties.

"Toby asked if I was happier, asked if Butchie was a better lover." Right. What part of his overall appearance urged Lana to tell him this? She could tell him anything and he'd listen. But Harkness wasn't really programmed to deal with matters like this. He didn't really want to know. She eyed him intently, expecting him to react but he barely squirmed. Not that androids could squirm. "He said he'll fight for me."

"Barber would tear him apart." A slow, amused, triumphant smile spread across her face.

"So, you and Butchie _are_ scheming…"

"No." He felt the tape in his pocket. "We aren't." 'We' wasn't a collective term.

Even after this conversation, he had no idea what it was Lana was doing with the barber or with Toby. And he didn't really want to know.

He just hoped for Toby's sake, he'd never try hitting Butch again.

Because Harkness probably _wouldn't_ stop Butch next time.

He blamed this on a bottle of Nuka-Cola.

On the way to Vera's, he passed Sister in the hallway. Reaching above him to change a lightbulb, Sister hadn't even bothered to switch off the lights, causing sparks to hiss at him as soon as he unscrewed the faulty bulb. Reckless. Dangerous. Harkness nodded in greeting, pausing beside the stepladder to hand him the new bulb sitting in a box on the lower rungs of the ladder. Sister grunted something he assumed was a 'thanks' and screwed this new bulb into the empty socket, the light shining his face almost instantly as the electricity made contact. He squinted into the light. Harkness resumed his journey.

He found Seagrave, as usual, attempting to woo Vera, saying 'I know I'm not a sophisticated man, but I'm still a man.' Right. So was Ted. Vera, as usual, was politely declining his advances.

He also found the barber unexpectedly awake. Not at the marketplace. Not at the Muddy Rudder. But here. At Vera's hotel lobby in the upper deck, his fingers curled in Vera's hair. Butch had a pair of scissors in his grip, trimming strands of Vera's hair from the left side of her scalp. The sight of the barber actually working stopped Harkness from entering the lobby.

Cause trouble didn't usually hold a sharp object and not try to cut someone.

He stood there for some time, _8 seconds_, and was about to leave and come back later when Vera noticed him and called his name in the slow, seductive way she said anyone's name. She liked to roll her 'r's when she said 'Harkness', the word sounding like a soft purr in her mouth.

"You look as lovely as ever, Vera," he complimented. Because she was. Because she expected it. Because as soon as he stepped into the lobby, Seagrave had fixed him with a semi-territorial stare. He felt it skimming along his skin. Attempting to cut into him. He could see how that irked Seagrave but what could he do? Not that he would do anything to remedy Seagrave's jealousy. Or wanted to. The barber glanced at him then, a short, secretive smirk tugging his lips, before focusing his attention on Vera again. The smirk stayed on his face as he worked. Vera beamed at Harkness. Cooed at him. Invited him to join her for a drink. It was a cover, of course. She might seem to be flirting with him, and she openly was, but past that sweet smile, her invitation to tea was an invitation for a gossip session. Despite being welcomed and beckoned by Vera, he stood just at the entrance to the lobby, watching this scene.

There was only one reason why he was here. It was the same reason he came here every month for five months so far.

"What shall we do with Zimmer's belongings, Harkness?" Vera asked.

He didn't know.

Hadn't had an answer since the day he entered the Science Lab and found two piles of ash. One was Zimmer. The other was Armitage. Piles of disintegrated wires, circuits and the filth that was Zimmer. Disintegrated by his trusted plasma rifle in the hands of the other Vault kid. He had examined the piles, _empty_, and then told Young to clear them up. It was such a serene picture, of ash floating on the water; he almost forgot that the ash belonged to a sick bastard. Good fucking riddance.

"Who's Zimmer?" Seagrave asked, his tone sounding disinterested, but Harkness could see that Butch definitely _was_ interested. He had stopped in the middle of a snip and turned to face him. It was strange that Butch didn't recognise that name, seeing as he knew what Harkness was. Seemed like the other Vault kid didn't mention Zimmer to him. That was interesting. Just how much did Butch actually know about his condition? In the few seconds he pondered the question, he saw Butch eye him, following the line of his form to his face. He realised that he was tense and he shifted slightly. Was it obvious that this topic affected him?

In truth, he wanted to examine the old fucker's belongings. To see if there were traces of him in there. _Traces of A3-21_. Zimmer had been a sneaky fucker. Intelligent. And a coward. He needed bodyguards. Needed to make sure that someone would always know where to find him. Including his old android, A3-21. There was this nagging feeling in Harkness that the coward might plant one of his awful contraptions within that room. Just for him to find. He didn't know what kind of contraption. Would he be erased? Reset? He had seen the tests of it back in the Institute, of something that could harm his circuits and do worse to a human. What if a _human_ encountered Zimmer's traps?

"No one knows for sure, hun," Vera answered Seagrave when Harkness didn't. "Mister Zimmer said he was searching for his lost property. An android." Butch flicked a questioning gaze at Harkness. He caught Butch's gaze. The intense, open one that fixed on some part of his face. Then it moved to somewhere on his torso and stayed there until the next snip of the scissors. He recognised that look on the face as curiosity. He didn't know what was going through Butch's head, but he had an idea. And that wasn't good.

"Give me the key, Vera," Harkness said. She nodded. Mr Buckingham handed him the key to Zimmer's door. From one machine to another. He saw Butch watch the exchange before he returned to his work, his face set in a determined expression. Butch ran his fingers through Vera's blonde waves. Snipped a lock. The cut hair landed on the floor. He combed the hair. Snipped another lock. Ran his fingers through her hair. Combed. Snipped. Parted the locks. Combed. Snipped. It was routine. Like clockwork.

Harkness wasn't really sure how long he stood there watching Butch work, _19 minutes 15 seconds_, before the barber decided he was done and Vera paid him caps for 'being so sweet'. He had to admit that Butch did a good job. He was genuinely talented. Vera smiled at him. Seagrave scowled.

As soon as Butch brushed past him out of the hotel lobby, Harkness followed the snake on his back.

"What? You gonna escort me again?" he demanded. Butch's hands automatically flew out of his pockets where Harkness could see them. Giving him a sidelong glance, Butch walked beside him. "I didn't do shit." Not yet.

"You want to break into the room." He knew that since the moment Butch's curious gaze fell on him. Butch slowed down his steps. He parted his lips to speak, to deny probably. Harkness cut him off. "Don't."

"The fuck?" Butch stopped then and turned to face him. Harkness stopped as well, waiting for the barber to speak. Barber didn't.

"You don't know what's in there."

"Sure. But I'm gonna find out." Bullshit. Why was he doing this? What was the point in him doing this? Butch smirked. The cocky smirk. But Harkness wasn't backing down.

"Zimmer was a sick bastard." Butch held his gaze. "So, don't go in there," he pressed. He watched the stare intensify as they both stood silently in the empty hallway, neither wanting to back off.

"I ain't one of your guards, Chief." Right. Butch didn't want to listen. He watched the way Butch's smirk curled into an obstinate sneer.

"Stay out of the room," he warned again. Then, noting the barber's still determined expression, he added a firm "Butch."

And _that_ made the barber falter. The sneer fell as he raised an eyebrow at Harkness. There were minute changes in that face. Less defiant. Some emotion flickered across his face and disappeared. It was… intriguing.

"Fine." Butch gave in. He took a step back, shoving his hands into his pockets. Eyeing Harkness again, he added "But what am I supposed to do tonight?" What the hell was that supposed to mean? Before he could suggest that Butch take a rest from all that trouble-making, Butch straightened up again, eyes glinting. "You're gonna be on the bridge right?"

Bullshit.

"You want to come to the bridge?" Harkness asked, incredulous.

"Sure, Chief," Butch answered. The smirk softened its edginess. Warmed a little. More playful. More relaxed. "If you want me to." It didn't make any sense why Butch was doing this but Harkness didn't ask further.

Being clueless about Butch was starting to become routine as well.


	12. Chapter 12

_**Hey there, you awesome lovely people. **__Thanks for __**all**__ your reviews. I didn't expect this much response. It's overwhelming. :') And thank you __**Razputin**__, __**Kersplatt **__and __**Aunty Soshul**__ for clearing up my confusion about the all versatile pip-boy. Your inputs have helped to work out how we can take Butchie's pip-boy off so that we can take his tight leather jacket off which is just Awesome. (Not this chappie though. Sorry.)_

_Anyway, ahead of you is a chapter that I have a love+hate relationship with. Because it's a 'bonding' chapter in which nothing much happens apart from lots of dialogue and interaction. 'Bonding' chapters are such a pain and delight to write; cause there's not much plot progression (in my case, at least) but at the same time, there /should/ be meaningful character interaction cause it's important. Hmmmmm... *broods*_

_That said, onwards, my dear. Onwards..._

* * *

**Trouble**  
**Chapter 12**

"Seriously, man," Butch's voice shot through his system from his right. Irritatingly loud. Skin-gratingly annoying. But not unwelcome. Harkness blinked; the blue in his mind tingeing the external world. It was the colour of the gel he first woke up in, that all androids woke up in upon activation. Naked. Floating. In blue gel he didn't have the name for. He didn't have its exact shade in RGB either; he couldn't analyse memories. He supposed the colour had stained his vision and everytime he closed his eyes this particular blue flooded him. "What kinda security chief falls asleep on duty?" Harkness slipped from the stark blue swimming behind his lids into full alert, _all systems in operation_. "What if muties come?" Butch spoke again. It was obvious that Butch didn't particularly care if muties came. Just wanted to disturb Harkness.

"Shoot them," he replied. His voice had taken on a raspy edge that sounded like he had just woken up from sleep. But he hadn't been sleeping. Just resting. Charging up. If muties did come, he would have spotted them much earlier than Butch. Would get rid of them quickly too, _efficiently_. He wanted to correct Butch on that but decided against. Barber didn't need to know. Harkness blinked, waiting for the blue to fade. Till the only blues he saw were the sky, the water below the bridge and Butch's jumpsuit beside him. _And his eyes._ He turned to Butch and noted that he was watching, as usual. A small smirk was tugging his lips, pulled to the left a little more than the right.

"I ain't the security chief here," Butch said, amused for some reason.

"Right." He met that look for a brief moment before bending down to reach for the bottle of water by his feet. "I don't even know why you're here." Butch chuckled at that reply like it was something funny. It wasn't.

He still didn't trust the barber.

Well, not fully, anyway.

Nights with Butch was actually quite companionable. That was why he could shut his eyes for a while, _11 minutes 54 seconds_. There _had _to be some measure of trust for him to consider shutting his eyes like that. It was… alright. He could get used to it. Probably already was.

That first night, when the barber said he wanted to visit Harkness on duty, Harkness didn't trust him. He read Butch's plan as something of a distraction - that as soon as Harkness was on the bridge, Butch would force into Zimmer's room. So, instead of going to the bridge at his usual hour, _1830 hours_, Harkness had stationed himself in the midship deck to keep an eye out for the sneaky barber in the Vault jumpsuit. He expected the barber to break into Zimmer's room for whatever fucked up reasons he had. He started waiting at _1903 hours_. At _2103 hours_, he realised that no one was going to force entry and that Sister had passed him three times, Bryan Wilks twice and Mister Buckingham four times during his stay. It was evident then, that no barber was going to show up at Zimmer's. So, he went up the stairwell, heading for the bridge. And there Butch was. Leaning against the wall. Playing with that switchblade of his. Looking a little bored, a little pissed off, a little tired. Butch had been waiting for him. He greeted Harkness with a narrow glare and an exasperated 'About time, man. You gotta oil your joints or something?' Then opened the door as they both exited to the bridge. Same thing happened the next day and Butch said 'What? Your clock's a day late?' Irritated. Bored. Butch obviously didn't like waiting around very much. As they leaned against the railing, Harkness uttered an impressed-sounding 'Thanks'.

Because Butch had kept his word. And hadn't even attempted to enter Zimmer's room by himself.

It _was_ impressive.

But, this…_arrangement_.

_This_ was puzzling.

This had been a week of nights, _three nights_. That and those little random meetings in the ship. That little smirk that twisted and turned. They followed him for days now. And the barber perched on the railing beside him was starting to become a part of his routine. _1830 to 0500: bridge duty with Butch_.

Why was he here?

Not that Harkness really minded. Butch being here meant that he wasn't causing trouble elsewhere on the ship. Just _why_ was he here?

Harkness had studied the figure beside him and couldn't decipher him. Even after asking some questions and getting some answers, he couldn't figure Butch out. Not that Harkness could figure anyone out. Humans and their many idiosyncrasies; they were tough to read. But most people _do_ follow a certain amount of logic and practicality, _common sense_. Butch seemed to follow some obscure code. Some Tunnel Snakes code which didn't make sense. _Tunnel Snakes was the name of the 'meanest, most badass gang in the Vault'. Now, it was the 'meanest, most badass gang in the Wastes'. Currently, it was made up of one gang leader and one gang member. Both were the same person._ The code apparently told Butch to cause trouble as much as possible, take jabs at android security chiefs and visit them at night. Because that was what he had been doing.

Didn't make sense.

Uncapping the bottle in his grip, Harkness put his lips to the rim and took a deep swallow of water. Lukewarm. But still refreshing. He offered the bottle to his companion. The barber pushed his fingers away and tipped the bottle over his open mouth. Swallowing the fountain of water. He drank some of it, _an eighth of the bottle_, before returning it to Harkness. Butch started whistling the brainwashing tune; he said it was the Tunnel Snakes anthem. Right. Another part of the Tunnel Snakes code. Butch tugged on the zipper of his jacket to make sure it was zipped all the way up; a _nervous gesture_. Leaning forwards, the water cast reflections on his face as he looked down, his back hunched over as he gripped the railing a little tighter. One push. A slight one was all it would take for Butch to crash into the water. But Harkness wouldn't make that push. And Barber knew that, of course. The snake at the back of the jacket sneered at him.

"Chief," Butch nudged his arm with a covered elbow. Harkness faced him. There was genuine curiosity on that face. That and a kind of nervousness. Or tension. "Why you gotta be out here? Why can't we be indoors?" He ignored the 'we' as a collective form.

"I'm on duty."

"Man, I know. But y'know..." No he didn't. Butch tugged on the zipper again and hissed something at the sky before looking back at him.

"Something bothering you out here?" Something was troubling Trouble? Bullshit. Harkness scanned the surroundings in case there were intruders. Nothing.

"Nah," Butch answered. No hesitation whatsoever. Then, "You staring at…the thing up there." He pointed at the sky. "Is that an android thing?" Well, that was unexpectedly harmless. And generally unexpected. Butch pulled up his already popped up collar to cover more of his cheeks. As Harkness stared at Butch who was waiting for an answer, some things occurred to him.

"The sky bothers you," he stated. Butch's gaze didn't waver. His face slowly shifted into _unreadable_. That wouldn't be a big deal if he hadn't seen many of Butch's expressions. But he had, so this face meant that the barber was trying to be evasive_. _Harkness turned to the sky, _R17 G29 B26_. There wasn't much of this story to tell, really. Just another one of his daily reminders. A harmless one. Reminding him of how much he had evolved from A3-21. But telling Butch this story would bring him into _his_ confidence. Not that he wasn't already, cause, _hell_, the barber already knew what he was. And Butch kept his word, didn't he? So…What the hell. "Back in the Commonwealth–"

"Android land?" Butch interrupted. Harkness nodded.

"Back there, the sky was a constant R40 G40 B40." He glanced at the Butch. "I didn't notice that till I decided to run. Cause I wasn't programmed to look at the sky." Because androids were programmed to _only_ execute their wired programs. Nothing more. Nothing less. Looking at the sky was something insignificant. Pointless. For the most part, it actually was. But that first moment his gaze had travelled upwards, noticing the clouds had signified a mark of change. Harkness could feel an alteration within him, something turning him a bit more of a man, _less of a machine_. Something in him felt liberated. Not only did he act outside his own hard wired coding, he could also interpret that the sky shouldn't be that unhealthy colour.

"What's R40 B4 whatever?" Butch piped up in a harsh whisper like they were sharing some sort of secret. They were, weren't they?

"R40 G40 B40." Harkness turned to him. "A fucking dull grey." Butch chuckled, letting a smirk slowly slip onto his face. The tense shoulders relaxed, _somewhat_. Seeing that, Harkness realised that he himself, was tense. He hadn't made a habit of telling others of his android nature. This…was a first. And it felt… strangely good. He couldn't place where the source of the feeling was, just that it spread over his chest warmly. Telling Butch this snippet of his life felt quite liberating as well, _to some extent_. He watched the way Butch had started playing with his switchblade, twirling it around his fingers over the water. The glint of the light on the blade caught and held his attention for some time, _7 minutes 32 seconds_, until Butch spoke.

"Y'know. Vaults ain't got… the thing up there." The sky. Yes. He knew. He flicked his gaze up at Butch. "I mean I ain't afraid of nothin'. But the thing up there… creeps me out." Well… this was a rare confession. It was… intriguing. Not just the subject matter. But the fact that Butch was admitting something to him was intriguing. Amusing, even, but that was purely because of the subject matter. Butch shrugged and turned to him. Whatever he saw on Harkness' face made him stop twirling the blade. He imagined he was probably showing a hint of a smile.

"Shut up, Chief," Butch warned but the smirk on his face was still there. The playful one. He pointed at Harkness. "You're afraid of an empty room."

"It's not empty. And you're not going in there alone." His tone immediately turned serious.

"Sure." Butch was unfazed. He stared at Harkness from the corner of his eyes, still maintaining that smirk. "Wanna go in together?"

What?

As far as ideas went, this one wasn't such a bad one, actually. Going in together meant that one would watch the other's back. If something happened, they would both be facing the problem. Better than either one of them going in alone, that was for sure. …Bullshit. Was he seriously considering Butch be a part of this?

"I'll… think about it."

* * *

_To listen to the mean, badass, brainwashing Tunnel Snakes anthem, go to: you tube .com /watch?v=S0ximxe4XtU  
Thanks for reading!_


	13. Chapter 13

_Happy Halloween, all! Thanks for reading!_

* * *

**Trouble**  
**Chapter 13**

What was he doing?

No. He knew what he was doing. But… what the _hell _was he doing?

He flicked his gaze up to the door. Then the keyhole. Then he rubbed the pad of his thumb over the ridges of the key in his pocket, feeling the grooves leave imprints in his skin. Then he was back to looking at the door. This was the sixteenth time he was going through this cycle of motions. Four more times and it might be ingrained into his system somehow. He felt his knuckles bumping against the holotape Preston gave him. Still in his pocket.

Pathetic. His life was hidden in pockets. And locked behind this room that had been closed off for almost 6 months.

_What kinda security chief are you? _

What kind of an android was he that he couldn't face some demons from his past?

Then again, androids weren't programmed to have demons. Didn't change anything. He still had to face his demons now.

He was tinkering like he was nervous. Twitching like he was unsure. He wasn't.

He was just contemplating bullshit.

Bullshit like what the hell was he thinking agreeing to Butch's company. Cause, now, at this moment, he couldn't figure out what the hell convinced him that this was a good idea. It was the same way he couldn't figure out why Butch spent so much goddamn time around him. Why he would let Butch's petty crimes slide without so much as a warning. Why he would let Butch finish up his drinks. Why Butch's non-sense was contagious. Yes. Contemplating bullshit.

This was a bad idea.

Because if Zimmer was truly the sick bastard he was in life, he would leave his equally sick 'gifts' lying around.

And Harkness could picture Butch getting touchy with the room and getting zapped and –

The door to the stairwell opened. Softly. He turned his head to where the sound came from then returned to staring at the door, playing with the key in his pocket. He didn't hear footsteps. But knew that they were coming to him. Soft footfalls on corrugated metal. If he concentrated enough, he could even hear the tinkle when fingers played with the zipper on a leather jacket. Butch finally turned the corner and saw him. And he was still staring at the door. Waiting. Had been waiting for 17 minutes 16 seconds. Butch wasn't late. Harkness was just early.

Butch let his footsteps fall proper now. None of the slithering bullshit even though his movements during the slithering mode were nice to study. He took on a different body almost, all silence and concentration as he tilted his head to apparent sounds. All grace and control, sliding fingertips along the walls as he slinked. He walked to Harkness. Swept eyes over him with an observational gaze which stopped at his face. He said 'Hey, Chief' with his 'Hey, Chief' smirk, the amused one with a tinge of cockiness. And Harkness felt a flare of tension somewhere in his navel.

Because Harkness didn't want to put him in trouble. Barber could do that very well on his own. And doing this was risky business.

"We gonna break stuff?" Butch asked, gesturing to the baseball bat in his hands. Harkness handed it to him.

"Don't touch anything with your bare hands," he said as an explanation.

"We're poking things with sticks?" That question didn't warrant an answer so Harkness didn't answer. Butch inspected the bat like he was a baseball bat expert of some kind, trailing his fingers over the wood, the faded logo on it. He swung the bat like a pro. His gaze flicked up to Harkness' face then narrowed. "Paranoid, ain't you?" That question didn't warrant an answer too.

Harkness finally slipped the key out from his pocket. Pressing it tight between his fingers made the grooves feel familiar; it pushed his focus to the door, its keyhole. This was a bad idea. Really. It was. Having Butch here was a bad idea.

"Shit, Chief. You looking at the door ain't gonna open it." He guessed that he must be emitting his tension which shut the barber up. For a moment, at least.

He turned the key into the lock till there was the loud click signalling that he had successfully unlocked the door. _About time, man. Seriously._ He spared Butch another glance then pushed open the door.

Immediately the musty stench of an empty closed room hit them. Clouded over his face and stuck itself onto his skin. Tangling in his hair. He rubbed his face as though he could peel it off. Butch cussed the stink. _Fuck. Vaults never smelled like this._ Harkness took a step inside the darkness; his footsteps sounded fainter than they should as they landed on the floor. Must be dust? He didn't know. Butch squeezed in and shut the door behind them. Locked it. It was suffocatingly dark before Harkness fumbled for the light switch, illuminating the place with its starkness. Made it clearer that it was empty. It was stuffy. The room had little ventilation. Considering that at least two people could stay in it, it was small. Vera had given Zimmer one of the smaller rooms she had available. Two naval cots, one on each side of opposite walls, looked untouched. Not surprising. No one had been in here. Mister Buckingham never entered the room to clean up either. The refrigerator near the entrance whirred. Beside it were two tall shelves, mostly empty, except for three wooden boxes and a couple of books, _4 books_. A wrench and a fallen over plastic cone was on the lowest shelf. At the far wall, opposite the doorway, there was a desk with a typewriter, rolled with paper. No words were on it. A couple of clipboards lay beside it. A desk lamp. A pen. A coil of wire. A suitcase was on the floor, standing beside the desk.

Potent silence hung in the air. He half-expected to be caught in a blast from a plasma rifle as soon as he walked further into the room. But he wasn't.

Harkness put the key back into his pocket and tightened his grip on the baton he had.

"Check the room for traps," he said, walking up to the naval cot on his right.

"Android traps?" Butch asked from somewhere to the left of him. Harkness slid the baton against the naval cot first, tapping on the edges of the frame, the mattress. A cloud of dust puffed up and Butch coughed.

"Something like that." Harkness paused in his work to feel a tremor on the back of his neck as he involuntarily replayed the events of an unfortunate intern, _Chris, 22 years old_, caught in a trap of Zimmer's doing. The intern had accidentally touched something on the bastard's messy desk, triggering some sort of charge. There was a blue light upon contact and the intern flew back, jerking on the floor like a current was ripping through his veins. From his reaction, that probably was true. Problem was, the contact with the charge of whatever it was, was gone. But the intern still writhed. Bled from his eyes. Sputtered flecks of pinkish spit on the floor. No one did anything. The intern gave a final wheeze and stopped moving. Now, Harkness glanced at Butch who arrowed him with a questioning gaze. He never wanted to see Butch in that situation. "The traps will erase me. And they'll kill you." Harkness thumped the naval cot. "They'll liquefy your brain. Make it bleed out your eye sockets."

"Fuck," Butch hissed. He watched Butch's eyes dart around the room; his stance immediately turned serious. "I'll…get the shelves," he said.

Harkness repeated the procedure on the other naval cot, hitting the frame, the mattress. Nothing. Cots were clear of traps. Dusty but fine. He turned to the walls. He took in the contours of the room, checking for asymmetry. No odd markings on the walls. No possible fake walls. No facades. No hollowness. He ran the baton on a couple of scratches in the metal. Nothing. Repeated the process on most everything. Tapped the furniture with the end of the baton. Kicked over a chair to see its back, legs. Behind him, he heard Butch break in one of the wooden boxes. Causing a mess. _That was what he got for giving him a bat._ Harkness turned to the desk. Worked on it. Checked every corner. The drawers. The knobs on the table lamp. The lightbulb. Every key on the typewriter. The clip on each clipboard. The clasps on the suitcase. The frayed leather skin on it. Every article in the room was subjected to the bat and baton routine.

And there was nothing.

No stupid traps. Not a single sadistic contraption. No trace of the Zimmer bullshit.

Nothing.

Harkness slumped down on one of the cots. Twitching. His fingers twitched around the baton; he loosened the grip on it. Hung his head and closed his eyes to just …breathe. To enjoy breathing. To give in to feeling safe, at least, for the moment.

Butch crashed his bat down onto the plastic cone with a loud bang, which dented it. He lifted his eyes to Harkness like he had just noticed him, giving him another 'Hey, Chief' smirk before walking over to sit beside him with his legs apart like he owned the cot. Butch rested the bat over his lap.

"Shelves clear," he said needlessly.

"Right." He could see that. "Having fun?"

"A little." He could see that too. Butch chuckled.

And Harkness felt a little better because seeing Butch not bleeding on the floor was a confirmation that Zimmer was still dead. And they were alive.

It was…alright. Everything was alright now.

5 minutes, _6 seconds_, later, they were bathed in anti-climatic silence. There was relief there, definitely. The tension had lessened, _somewhat_. Harkness rifled through the papers in the suitcase; the baton was on the cot. Butch was doing the same behind him with the boxes. The barber was shoving things out of his way. Breaking things on the floor. Better that he was breaking these non-belongings than someone else's nose.

The papers in the suitcase were irrelevant. Nothing that Harkness hadn't already known. There was a pamphlet about working for the Institute in the Commonwealth. A drawing of what appeared to be a hybrid of a scientist and a machine was spewing promises out its mouth in a speech bubble. Promises of a 'lasting career, amazing advanced technology and clean environments'. Brainwashing material unlike Butch's whistling. There was an organiser diary in the suitcase. It was empty. There were no notes. No appointments. No written words. No pieces of paper with Zimmer's scrawl. The pencil that was strapped onto its binding wasn't even sharpened. There was a file in the case as well, filled with yellowed, crumpled sheets of paper. Also empty. The only useful item in the suitcase was a data cable that he couldn't figure out what it was for. There were no clothes inside the case. Or anywhere else in the room. No food in the fridge. Just two bottles of purified water. Unopened. There was nothing hidden in the drawers or under the mattresses of the cots.

It was odd.

There were no traps or tasteless gizmos. But this lack of personal belongings didn't really add up. It bothered him. He didn't know why.

"Hey," Butch nudged him with the bat, asking for attention. He shoved a folded sheet of paper to Harkness' chest, unaware of this thing called personal space. Printed fine letters stared up at him in long paragraphs. He skimmed over the passages, reading everything quickly, _efficiently_. When he saw a line of random words strung together, he stilled.

"Where'd you get this?" He was aware that his voice had grown deeper; the tension was spreading over him again. "It's my activation code." He pointed at the line: _A3-21, initialise factory reset, authorisation code: Beta, 5, 3, Alpha. _

"Acti-va-tion? What's it do?" Butch peered over his shoulder. Then he nudged Harkness with the bat again. "If I say it to you, will it turn you on or somethin'?" he asked, complete with a playful smirk.

"If you say the code to me it will wipe out my system." He watched Butch's smirk fade. He hadn't even explained what that meant before Butch plucked the paper out of his grasp and stepped away.

"Anyone says the first word, I'll break their jaw," he threatened, his eyes dark and serious, voice rough. His face had transformed in just a few seconds. He was looking at Harkness with something heated.

"First three words," Harkness negotiated because… what the _hell_? What _could_ he say? Harkness felt the shift in the mood and felt uneasy. Unsettled. His throat felt clammed up even though he knew there was nothing physically wrong with it.

"First two words. Then I'll knock them out." Butch fixed him with a hard stare. Intense. Daring Harkness to argue with him. He wouldn't.

"Do what you want." Harkness gave in, slightly disoriented at how Butch was being protective. Because he _was _being protective. He followed the snake on his jacket to the cot where he sat beside the barber and watched him trying to remember the code, mouthing the words _A3-21, initialise._ _A3-21, initialise._ _A3-21, initialise_. It was… unexpectedly… Unexpected.

After some quiet moments, _3 minutes 57 seconds_, Butch pressed an envelope into his hands. Apparently, the paper came from this envelope; it was slotted in one of the books on the shelves. It looked important. Why didn't Butch give this to him earlier? Didn't make sense. Butch put down the activation code on his lap and just watched Harkness. Already, that look was disconcerting. Piercing. Harkness turned to the envelope. It was unmarked but inside, there was another letter addressed to someone named Eulogy Jones. The handwriting belonged to Zimmer.

Bullshit.

Zimmer had ordered Eulogy Jones to set slavers on Harkness.


	14. Chapter 14

_I apologise for the delay. Thank you very much for reading! (Edited! just grammar, spelling, tense, etc. y'know, minor stuff)_

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**Trouble  
Chapter 14**

Lana called for him as she sprinted down the hall. He felt dread sink low in his navel. Because knowing Lana, she only called him when she couldn't stop certain bullshit. She flew down the halls to him; her blonde hair had gone loose. He took 1 second later than he should to drop his razor onto the sink and grab his shirt. Could've done it much faster. What the hell was wrong with him? 'Butch' she said. And it confirmed what he'd already suspected. That there was trouble. And Butch was involved. He felt the sting of panic across his back. But didn't indulge in it. Didn't want to. Shouldn't. The tension expressed itself in the rough way he yanked his shirt over his head. And he was already running with her. No time for precise neatness. He wiped his jaw with his hands and smeared the synthetic sliding down his chin. He ran. She ran.

Knowing Butch… Tunnel Snake wouldn't know he was bleeding till he stopped.

Bullshit.

Troublesome bastard. Didn't he say to leave it alone?

_I ain't one of your guards, Chief._

Bullshit.

He jumped over the stairs. Lana had fallen behind. He was guided by the sounds of fighting now. Getting louder. Getting closer. Why the hell was he moving so slowly? He banged the stairwell door open. Slipped past his guards, _five of them_. He saw them straighten their backs. Saw the bruises on their faces. Bullshit. Was Butch hitting his guards too? Their hands gripped their batons. But no one was using them. They followed him. Ahead, the sounds continued. No one was talking. No insults. No goading. Just crashes. Louder. Clearer.

In the room, Sister had Butch in a stranglehold.

They were both bleeding. Locked on each other. Trying to twist the other to pieces.

He watched Butch crash into the locker in the corner where Sister threw him. Butch barely let the pain settle before he was launching himself on Sister again. He just got pushed back again. Easier this time.

And then Harkness was elbowing Sister's chin. Shoving him against the wall. Sister stumbled backwards. Cursed when he banged against the wall and crumpled to the ground. Instead of fighting, Sister put his head in his hands. He let loose a low moan. Didn't even try to get up. Harkness turned to Butch only to see him lunge at Sister. He grabbed the snake and hauled him back. The jacket slipped off a shoulder. Butch struggled against his grip. Demanded him to let go in a series of angry hisses. He wrenched the barber to him. And slammed him into the locker. Harkness kept his grip on him as he looked over his shoulder to see Lana direct guards to Sister. Sister still wasn't moving to get up. And Butch still thrashed against him, trying to get at Sister. _Calm down._ Harkness pressed Butch to the locker. _Calm the fuck down_. And saw how injured he was. Saw the blood on his swollen lips. Dribbling down his jaw. Blood on his brow. Cut across his left cheek. Open wound on his right temple. Bruise on the left side of his nose. _Butch._ His eyes, wild and flickering finally focused on his. And Butch coughed. Then he winced.

Only then did Harkness realised he was pinning Butch to the locker with more strength than he should. _Fluctuations around 80% of full strength. _How the hell had it escalated to that? How much strength did he use on Sister? Sister still wasn't getting up; the hands holding his head were shaking.

_What the hell was wrong with him?_

He relaxed his grip on Butch. Pulled back. Slightly. Just enough that the wince reduced. He checked that he hadn't broken in Butch's ribs. Checked that none of his injuries were fatal.

He slipped the forearm holding Butch off him. Took a step back to just… calm down. To at least, stop the painful thudding echoing somewhere in his chest. To swallow the _nothing_ that was choking his throat. Butch widened his eyes when he pulled back and then grabbed him. Fisted his shirt and tugged him close. He could smell the sharp tang of rust on him. _Blood._

"Chief." He was slurring like he was drunk. "Don't go near the fucker." By reflex, Harkness shrugged off the grip. But Butch instantly clamped a hand on his arm, digging fingers into the flesh. Tugged him close again. His eyes pleaded, darting past him to Sister. "He's gonna kill you."

Right.

"_I_ want to kill you right now," Harkness blurted. He swatted Butch's hands away. They immediately tightened around his other arm.

"Shit. I ain't joking."

"Neither am I." Butch's eyes, still wide, now narrowed as he leaned his head against the locker behind him. His lips pulled into his usual smirk. Bloodier than usual.

"Nah. You'll miss me too much." What the hell? This was hardly the time to be playing around.

And Sister wasn't to be played around with. Butch knew this. What the hell was he thinking picking stupid fights with trigger-happy fuckers? And didn't they discuss this? That they weren't going to pursue the Eulogy Jones – Zimmer conspiracy on the ship? Butch's problem was that he couldn't keep away from causing trouble. That he didn't like 'waitin' around for stuff to happen'. Whatever it was, did it justify trying to get himself killed? No. _Hell_, no. Jumping into fights like it was important. Getting beat up like it was worth anything. Bullshit. What was all this for? What if he was injured worse than this? He didn't want to see the barber ripped apart and bleeding all over the floor. Didn't want to see even a _mere_ hint of that. No. _Hell_, no.

That thought made his fingers twitch. He felt his pulse jump. He didn't even want to be near Butch right now because he felt unhinged. Uncontrolled. He wanted to pound some sense into Butch's non-sense.

Barber had him feeling violently tense.

He turned to move to Sister but the grip on his arm was still there. Distracting. It tightened when he tried budging it off. Barber wouldn't let go of him. Like he had him on a leash of some sort. It was cutting off circulation in his arm. He wanted to tell Butch to knock it off but the look on his face had darkened into an expression he couldn't figure out. That look and the cuts on his face... They just… fucked with his system. Harkness simply wasn't programmed to deal with this. Deal with such… strong emotions. He took in a breath and gave in. Let himself be pulled. That seemed to calm Butch down and the tight grip loosened. Just a little.

"Sister?" Lana was asking. Gentle but firm. Sister didn't answer. Just shook his head. Honestly, Sister looked more messed up than Butch. He was still clutching his head and his face had turned pale. He mumbled something which made Lana lean closer. Whatever she heard made her give Harkness a worried look.

12 minutes, _35 seconds_, later, Lana and the guards were escorting Sister to the bridge tower. And Butch was in Preston's office getting patched up. It would take more than 1 measly Stimpak to heal him. And Harkness didn't have a Stimpak right now because he wasn't dressed for duty. He wasn't dressed for anything. There was a hole in his shirt and bloody fingerprints on his sleeve and on the hem of his shirt and pretty much on odd places. Red on gray. It was like Butch had been clawing him and leaving prints on him. The marks were… awkward. Especially the ones on his forearm. Not that nothing else was awkward. Butch whining to Preston about everything was awkward too. _Come on, man. Be gentle. I need my face after this y'know. _He had stubbornly refused to take off the jacket and his jumpsuit, only unzipped them. The white shirt underneath those two garments, he had pulled up its hem to expose his torso. There were purple bruises along his ribs and thin faint scars on his stomach. The scars were old but the bruises were not. Watching Butch in this state caused a strange uncomfortable _constant _metallic humming in his body; he couldn't pinpoint its source. Distracting. He turned to the holotape he was given.

According to Lana, Butch had been searching through Sister's footlocker and found something incriminating. It was a holotape. It had Sister's name scrawled on it. Now, the holotape was in his pocket. Next to Preston's tape. Butch had passed it to Lana to pass to Harkness before he went looking for Sister. In the other pocket was Butch's switchblade. Must be luck that Sister didn't find it on the floor. Reckless barber left his shit lying everywhere.

"Chief?" Butch called from his place on the cot. "You still wanna kill me?" Equal parts yes and no. Harkness decided not to reply that. Just stared back at him. "Fine. But…uh… y'know you got my blood on your jaw?" He had forgotten about that. Not that he could forget. Just that he hadn't been consciously thinking about it. He walked over to Preston's desk where the basin of water was. The water had turned reddish. _Butch's blood._ He picked up the soaked towel and wiped his chin with it.

"Not your blood. I cut myself shaving this morning." He fingered the small groove in his skin.

"You bleed?" Butch blurted. Harkness didn't want to answer that question either. It was a good thing Preston didn't seem to find that question odd; he just continued his work on Butch's bruises. Probably used to idiocy. "You cut yourself shaving? That's…" Butch's voice trailed off as he frowned at Harkness. He imagined that Butch wanted to say something insulting. For someone who had just got beaten up, his mouth didn't seem to lack energy. His frown deepened like he was thinking hard. Then it faded. Changed into a determined expression. And that was the best time to interrupt his thoughts.

"Explain," Harkness demanded. "What the hell were you doing?" _That_ wasn't a fruitful question. How had it slipped past his lips? _Just important facts needed._ "The holotape you found. What about it?" Butch didn't want to answer him. His face shifted into the _passive_ mask he used when he didn't want to relay information.

"Chief Harkness, you can use my player if you want," Preston offered. The doctor straightened up and took off his right glove to tinker with the player on his desk.

Harkness looked over at Butch who trained him with a hard, open stare as Preston slotted the holotape into the player. He seemed to have something to say but wasn't saying it.

The tape crackled. And someone cleared their throat.

"We've a little assignment from the Commonwealth. A very important slave escaped into the Wasteland. Well, it's not exactly a slave. It's what they call an android. A kind of synthetic man. The important thing isn't what this guy is. The important thing is the job pays more than you can imagine. If you want a cut, then get a move on."

The tape crackled again. The tape ended.

"The android _wasn't_ a hoax?" Preston wondered aloud.

"No shit," Butch replied. He brushed his fingers over the cut on Harkness' chin. "He's an asshole too."


	15. Chapter 15

_I apologise for the delay. I apologise that I haven't replied to some of your mails. This has been a hell of a week. I hope all of you had a better one. Thank you very, very much for your patience and support. You guys are awesome. I mean it. And this chapter: Lots of dialogue. Less of Butch. Hope you enjoy it. (If you don't, do tell me too.)_

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**Trouble  
Chapter 15**

The stark white light seemed to lend a glow to Lana's pale skin. She looked comfortable in the light of the makeshift interrogation room, like she was made to stand in it. As she stood in front of Sister, she uncapped a bottle of water for him, sliding it across the table. Sister drank it like it was the last thing he would ever consume, almost finishing it before putting it away from his mouth. Through the glass, Harkness could see the way Sister's fingers jerked in small tics, the way his eyes darted everywhere. He looked cornered yet he was sitting there with his hands clasped like in prayer. It was only fitting that at this moment, Father Clifford uttered 'Amen' and Harkness glanced at the reverend sitting on the bench beside him. He had met Father Clifford on the stairs and they walked to the bridge tower together. The reverend asked him about Sister's well-being. He answered 'He's alive' which made Father Clifford give him a patronising smile. It was evident that the reverend was here only for Sister. Not that it surprised him.

When he had searched through Sister's footlocker, he found a thin, faded book with pages folded at the corners containing neatly written notes in praise of Saint Monica. Most probably, it belonged to the reverend because Sister didn't know how to write. There was a small assortment of things within that footlocker. Two books, a loaded 10mm pistol, a box of rounds for the gun _and a holotape with Sister's name on it_. The pistol didn't add to the incriminating evidence; everyone in the Wastes carried around at least one loaded gun. Harkness had run the pad of his thumb around the keyhole; there were no scars. No odd marks from forced entry. It definitely took some level of precision to pull this off. The locker with its very few things resembled his own locker. Only, his own locker was emptier. Because he kept his holotapes in his pocket. That and Butch's switchblade. Hadn't returned it to him because…_Because_.

Lana stuck her head out of the door and beckoned him to enter. He stood up. Father Clifford smiled at him. He didn't know if he returned the smile but he immediately felt the turmoil of things he didn't fully understand swirl in his gut. Harkness stepped into the stark white light and shut the door behind him. There was a flash of emotion across Sister's face at his entrance; he looked as messed up as how Harkness felt right now. There was a long gash on his left cheek that he hadn't noticed, starting from his ear till his jaw, and a very dark bruise over his eye. He didn't know how much injury he had added to Sister's collection by slamming him against the wall. No one told him anything. He was just doing his job as a security chief. The ability to stop trouble was one of the reasons he was made security chief, anyway. One of the reasons he was made an android hunter all those years.

"We're going to ask you some questions, Sister," Lana said as she took a seat in front of Sister. Sister nodded. Harkness took a deep breath. "Let's start from the beginning."

Apparently, Sister had been trying to change another blown out lightbulb when Butch jumped him. Punched him straight in the eye. He dropped the ladder and the lightbulb and did what any Wastelander would do. Fought back. Butch hit him relentlessly. Even tried to cut him with a switchblade. Sister admitted that at one point, the blade dropped. He picked it up. Gave Butch some cuts on his face. _That_ made his fingers twitch. Made Lana wince. He watched Sister clasp and unclasp his hands.

"Vault scum. Always askin' for trouble." Sister grunted.

"Why did he attack you?" Lana asked. Her tone was firm. But conversational. She was very patient during interrogations. She said that that was why she wouldn't make a good security chief.

"Fuck if I know. Ask th' scum." Sister was starting to look bored.

"You don't know why he attacked you?" Lana pressed.

"D'ya need a reason t'pick fights?" Sister scoffed. "He don't need one."

Harkness took the holotape out of his pocket and slid it onto the table. It spun for a while, the written _Sister_ staring up at all three of them. He saw Lana glance at him. He watched Sister's jaw clench.

"Scum didn't have a right t'–"

"Irrelevant." His interruption came out as a snarl. Sister's glare shifted to him and it wavered, and then faded. Sister clutched the back of his neck. He seemed to be massaging the flesh there. Then he clasped his hands again. Stared at the holotape with dark eyes. There was emotion in that gaze; he couldn't read it. He saw the fingers jerk again, tightly wound around each other. Saw a nervous tic work the side of his face. Saw that he seemed to… cower from the tape. Or him, probably. Shouldn't have pushed him against the wall too hard. Then again, he might deserve it.

"It's th' past," Sister said after a brief, _38 seconds_, silence. His voice had lost its edge. Taken on a tone that didn't fit him. Sister wasn't meeting their eyes; he was focused on the holotape. He spoke without any coaxing.

It was his last mission from the Boss, Eulogy Jones. Close to a year ago. Boss told him to find a synth-man someone in the Commonwealth had lost. He didn't know who it was. Only that the pay was good. 3000 caps to capture the synth alive. He was given a picture of what the android supposedly looked like, _'Ugly sonuvabitch.'_ And a lead. The lead told him that the synth-man was trying to find someone to fix his face. So he had better work fast. Or else the picture would be useless. And then, there was nothing else. No other leads. No worthwhile information. No help. He didn't know if anyone else was on this mission. Didn't know if he had been tricked. He wandered the Wastes. Found his way to Rivet City.

"Is the android here?" Lana asked, genuinely curious and maybe slightly hopeful. Her eyes had widened, fixated on the story.

"Fuck if I know." Sister shrugged. His voice still held that fragile quality. The tape was between his palms; he was attempting to scratch out his name in half-hearted effort. The scratching sound was gratingly loud in the tiny room. It made the scene seem unreal. "I came here cuz' th' ship's made of metal. Don't robots like metal?" Right. Harkness glanced at the tape.

"You're still on this mission," he stated. Sister raised his eyes to him.

"No," he said with force. Edgy all over again.

"You're still a slaver."

"Fuck. Told ya –"

"Sister," Lana started. She placed a palm on Harkness' forearm to stop him. "If you aren't a slaver, why do you still have the tape?"

"…Don't know what to do wit' it," he confessed. "Burned th' picture. But th' tape…" his voice trailed off. Sister stilled his fingers, pressed the tape onto the table once again. His name on the tape was still intact; the scratches couldn't peel the ink off. Permanent. Almost out of his own accord, Harkness shoved his hand into the pocket with Preston's tape; feeling hard plastic on his skin. He didn't know what to do with holotapes either.

"You're not a slaver anymore?" Lana asked again. Sister looked up at them, stared at him openly.

"No."

"Bullshit." Harkness met that stare. "If you find the android tomorrow, you'll turn him in." For 3000 caps. The room went still at his accusation. Lana stiffened. She believed that too even though she didn't want to.

"There's a bounty on me," Sister said grimly. "I go back 'n they'll collar me. Happens when slavers run away." He clasped his hands. The fingers weren't in spasms anymore. "Flak's got a bounty too. But Shrap's watchin' out for 'im." He gave a heavy sigh before leaning forwards towards the both of them. Towards _him_. "Look, Mister Harkness." Sister's face shifted into an open _desperate_ expression. "I got nothin'." The off-tone in his voice was back. That tone and his expression stirred something in his system. Made him uneasy. "I got nowhere t' go. No one t' watch my back. Nothin'. 'M no slaver. 'M not goin' back." Sister pleaded. "So, please…"_ Hell_. "Don't throw me out. Th' ship's all I got left."

Instantly, his mind wrenched every memory of every runner he hunted and played them for him behind his eyes. Every beg. Every plead. Every clammy cling to his hands as he held the gun that would erase them under their chins. Just a press of a button and he watched them 'disappear' in front of his eyes. Erased. Leaving hollow metal with glazed, empty eyes. _Designation B4-367. A27-06. B-90_. Many others. Every runner and their last speeches. Of liberation. Of self-determination. Their last pleads for 'mercy'. For him to let them be free. For him to let them _be_. For him to be _human_. And he simply wasn't.

The erasure wasn't supposed to be painful. But he felt the pain in administering it. And androids couldn't forget.

He slipped his hands into both pockets. Felt the edges of the holotape. Felt the handle of Butch's switchblade sliding on his skin.

"Father Clifford's waiting for you outside," he said. "So, you're wrong. He's watching out for you. So's Lana. And they're not the only ones." He paused to see Sister cling to his every word. Met his pleading gaze with his own direct one. "You're not going to make me regret it, are you?" It wasn't a question. Sister moved his lips to speak but shook his head instead. He moved his lips to speak again, but nothing came out. That inability to speak tugged at Harkness and he felt like he couldn't _be_ here anymore. He stood up. So did Lana. "The barber. He's… watching out for someone too. So…" his voice trailed off.

"Won't put my hands on 'im if he don't put his hands on me." And that was _all_ Harkness wanted to hear.

"About your back –"

"S'nothin'. You pulled an old injury."

Right.

Lana said some encouraging words to Sister and Harkness stepped out of the light, out of the room. Father Clifford stood up from his seat and smiled at him. This time, he returned it. Most probably. He watched the reunion from behind the glass as he moved to pick up a clean shirt from his locker. Watched as the reverend handed something to Sister which made him give a small smile. It was a lightbulb. When he left the bridge tower and headed to the stairwell, Lana thanked him softly. For what? She didn't answer. Squeezed his hand. Before telling him to make sure 'Butchie' was okay. Then she turned towards the marketplace. Probably to eat again. Her stomach was clearly more important than anyone else. He steered himself along the halls, hearing his footsteps echo. Hearing his mind whirr.

Because nothing was truly resolved. Just because Sister wasn't trying to find him, it didn't mean that no one else was. There could be more than ten slavers after him and he wouldn't know for sure. They wouldn't know old bastard Zimmer was dead.

Then he was already at the door the dead bastard used to own. Butch was currently staying in the room. Vera had offered to take Butch in when she saw him in the clinic. Very kind of her. But she had passed Harkness the keys to Zimmer's room. And assured him she had cleaned the room up. She did. The place reeked of Abraxo. He pushed open the door. It was dim. The only light came from the table lamp. It cast a faint glow on everything. On the Tunnel Snake jacket folded on the floor. On Butch's skin as he lay on his back. On his neck, his cheekbones and his injuries. He was sleeping; chest rising and falling with each inhale and exhale. It was odd how sometimes; it escaped him that Butch actually slept. Barber spent too much time being awake. The bruises and cuts on his face hadn't seemed to dissipate. Just looked less angry. Same with the bruises on his ribs. Harkness watched him sleep undisturbed for some time, _7 minutes 19 seconds_, before reaching out to trace the cut on his cheek. It wasn't bleeding anymore. Butch stirred but didn't wake. Seeing Butch like this made the strange metallic humming in his body start again and he moved to the other unoccupied cot.

How long had his system been awake? The last time he slept was approximately 3 months 15 days ago. Now, lying down, he felt _drained_. Of everything. He wanted to analyse every weighted thing on his mind but…

He closed his eyes.


	16. Chapter 16

_Hello amazing awesome people! Loooooong chapter ahead... (Really, I don't know how this reads. Tell me if you hate it. Or if I'm doing it right.) Thank you very much for reading!_

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**Trouble**  
**Chapter 16**

He was back in the Institute. And he was back in that gel. Floating. Trapped in that unbearable blue he first woke up in. Feeling current travel up his arms. Feeling the needles pinning him down. Feeling the surge of information rushing into his mind. Weightless. Yet weighted. In stasis. Between awake and deactivated. This was his first moment of life. He hadn't understood the concept of alive back then. Not sure he understood it now. Being alive made him feel things. Made him clueless. Made him question. But in the gel, he was only ready to obey. Lab coats walked past the glass. They peered up at him and wrote down notes. All systems in operation. A3-21 100% charged. Ready. Ready to obey. _A3-21, I am Doctor Zimmer._ He tried searching for feeling in his arms and his fingers twitched in response. The gel drained away; he saw its level lowering in sharp swirls. The same blue tint swam in front of him. Through the glass, everything was still stained blue. _A3-21, you answer to me now._ A strain of music pierced his system. Drowned the murmurs of his stability and unquestioned loyalty. While feeling the response in his toes, the music came through strongly and before he knew it, he was already opening his eyes in the middle of his not-dream.

The last traces of the blue he couldn't measure flitted in and out of his vision while the tune got louder, tugging at his consciousness. He blinked away sleep and memories. He took a deep breath. Exhaled. Felt the extra weight on the cot next to him. Felt the warmth of a human touch ghosting on his skin. The whistling stopped. And he heard "About time, Chief" spoken deeply. Warmly.

_Butch._

He woke up then. Eyes focused through the haziness. Re-focused. On an unfamiliar ceiling. In a dim room. He knew where he was, where they were, and what had happened. Butch and a ton of bullshit. He felt drained. He must've dozed off for a few hours. Clearly not enough. He felt tense. Yet, to a certain extent, calm. He scanned his surroundings. Saw a bunched up white shirt and some peeled off bandages on the unoccupied naval cot across the room. Saw an empty bottle of cola standing next to a bottle of whiskey on the floor. Saw that the chair for the desk had been rolled to almost the middle of the room. He gave in and looked down at the cot he was lying on. And saw Butch. _Of course._ Sitting on his bed. Leaning his head on the wall. Back flush against the slight juncture of Harkness' waist, spreading warmth on his bare skin. The cuts on his face had reduced its darkness. But his eyes were darker in this dimness. They were staring at him. Butch's gaze was trained on his face like he was… waiting. Had _been_ waiting. The gaze flicked over to his eyes and his nose. His chest. Somewhere. Everywhere. He was being scrutinised, observed in an unabashed way. Nothing clinical. Nothing scientific. But a heated mix of interest and nonchalance. Butch was twirling his switchblade.

"You searched my pockets," Harkness stated. His voice was raspy. Hoarse. Thick with sleep. He felt the flat emptiness of both his pockets. Butch had pick pocketed him while he was asleep. And didn't even startle him. It took precision to do that. He swallowed. Precision and skill. Sneaky bastard. He wondered where the holotapes were. Wondered at the faint relief he felt to know that they weren't currently in his pockets.

"You stole my toothpick." Stole? And he didn't want to ask why Butch called his switchblade a toothpick. Butch spoke in the same way he had woken Harkness up. Grating. But soft. Not in the accusatory tone it should have been. He continued twirling the switchblade in slow circles around his fingers.

"Don't leave your shit lying around, then." Harkness shifted his legs. Butch shifted against his skin, spreading more of that warmth. He watched Butch lift his face to the ceiling, his chin almost parallel to it, but his eyes were still trained on Harkness. That stare had intensified. Shifted too. To his torso. Probably seeing the vicious pale scars on him. It wasn't like there was anything else to see on that map of his skin.

"You're fucked up," Butch drawled, his eyes tracing the lines on his skin. He didn't deny that. His doctors _did_ fuck him up. The scars were from multiple surgeries that opened him up to fix his insides. There were lines zigzagging across his stomach and perpendicular ones slashed to his hips. Wiring problems. Experiments. Hardware. Software. He was fucked up from the start. Butch stopped twirling his switchblade. "What do you say when people ask?"

"Deathclaw," he answered. Anything but 'surgeons'. "Mutie. Raiders. Lurks."

"Tunnel Snake." Butch added to the list, smirking the 'Hey, Chief' smirk.

"Right." The smirk widened. They stayed like that for a while, _10 minutes 47 seconds_. He knew that he should probably be getting up now. Should get away from Butch… and go to work. He was a security chief. And he was going to get up. Sometime. He was caught between wanting to stay and wanting to go. If he let himself think about Sister or –

Bullshit. What the hell was he doing? Slavers were still after him, weren't they? Maybe they'd stop hunting him. Did slavers ever stop hunting? Androids couldn't. Could _he_ ever stop hunting? He didn't know. Didn't even know if he was any less of a machine, or any less of a man. But what could he do? He had no clues. No leads. Just holotapes and letters and unanswered questions. He would have to resort to_ waiting_ for slavers to come to him –

And he wasn't going to think about this here and now. He needed to get his shirt and his armour and a shave and then he'd be ready to figure this out.

He pushed himself up on his elbows, nudging Butch to move away from him. Butch wasn't moving. Just stared at him. It was more unsettling now that he was closer.

And he was still caught between wanting to stay and wanting to go.

Butch slid off the cot and Harkness followed, searching for his shirt. It wasn't anywhere. Not even on the desk where he put it. Instead, the desk was cluttered with several things that were out of place in the room. A basin of some sort. A coffee pot. A mug with a brush in it. A towel. Another towel. A small bottle. As he stood inspecting these items, he felt Butch move behind him. He turned around only to be shoved into the chair with a palm to his chest. Bullshit. His body reminded him to restrain himself. Rein in his strength. His protest was arrested by Butch's gentle swipe over his chin.

"Relax, Chief," Butch persuaded, face too close to his as it hovered over him. The palm on his chest travelled up, to tilt his chin up a bit more. He could feel the roughness of a calloused hand on him. The hairs seemed longer than usual as Butch's fingers moved through the scruff, touching skin, brushing his lips. …Oddly gentle. And very inappropriate. Harkness clamped his hand on Butch's wrist, only to wind around the gadget, _the_ _pip-boy 3000_. Butch smirked down at him, saying "Come on. This is one of the things you should really trust me on."

And that didn't really sound… safe. But he let go of the gadget. Leaned back into the chair and just… watched Butch smirking down at him. Bullshit. He let the barber get away with everything now. It was ridiculous. And it wasn't like he didn't trust the barber but…

The snake on his back kept its eyes on Harkness when Butch turned to the desk. Harkness watched as Butch curled his fingers around the coffee pot and tipped it over the basin. Steam rushed away from the surface of the water as it splashed. _Hot_. He watched Butch insert the coffee mug into the water, submerging its bottom half. Carefully. Like when he was being sneaky. He grasped the brush. Started swirling the contents of the mug. Stirring vigorously as soft thwacks hit the sides of the mug. 67 seconds later, Butch lifted the mug out of the water and moved towards him. Harkness felt his fingers twitch at the proximity. His stomach clenched when droplets of hot water ran down the mug and dripped onto his skin, uncomfortably sliding down his navel. _Very hot. _He considered complaining but was distracted. The mug was filled with thick, white foam sticking to the curved planes of its inside. The foam stood up in sharp spikes when Butch scooped up a dollop with the brush and pasted it on his skin. It was…_warm_. Bordering on hot. And it smelled… good. The foamy warmth was spread over his chin. Liberally. With the brush. Over his jaw. His neck. The sides of his face. Coated it white in circular strokes. Then Butch turned away, the snake still keeping watch. He reached for the towel and dipped it into the water. He gave a sharp hiss, at the temperature probably, but continued to wring the towel of excess water before facing Harkness again. Harkness could feel his grip tighten on the armrests as fingers tilted his chin up again. Much warmer now. But not as warm as the towel that Butch was wrapping around his face. Covering his eyes; he had eyefuls of wet towel. It was almost scorching when Butch pressed it into his skin before his hands left again. He could hear Butch messing with stuff on the desk, hear the slosh of water. The hands returned after 70 seconds. Unwrapped his face and carelessly threw the towel into the basin of water. Another towel, wetter but with the same temperature was wrapped over his chin. It was shorter in length, ripped on one end. Butch pressed the fabric and its heat into his jaw, standing over him. This time, he kept his hold on the towel, staring down at Harkness. Quietly. Examining him in the same way he had been doing approximately 10 minutes ago. Very…unsettling.

"What are you doing?" Harkness asked, his words muffled by the towel. He was probably an hour too late asking this. _8 minutes 12 seconds late._

"Warming you up." Right. Harkness felt his own fingers twitch with discomfort. After a long 1 minute 16 seconds, which he spent staring up at Butch and feeling his palms through the warm dampness, Butch unwrapped the towel, wiped his face with it and tucked it into his belt. He picked up the mug again. Lathered Harkness' face with the foam again, pushing the foam off his lips with the rough pad of his thumb. He turned to place the mug back into the basin of hot water. And when Butch faced him, he had opened up a blade. Sharp and rectangular.

"Relax, Chief," Butch coaxed, pushing against his chest again. He didn't have to. Harkness was too stunned to go anywhere, his focus on Butch's _new_ mode and the _new_ blade glinting in the light. Not the toothpick. But a straight razor. That was what it was. He remembered seeing someone, _Shrapnel_, making slicing motions in the air with a straight razor and accidentally cutting himself. His mind chose the best time to replay that particular incident. Something curled in his gut, warning him. But his ass was still on the chair.

He must really trust Butch. Either that or he had developed some kind of attraction to trouble.

Butch tipped his chin up. His fingers were coated with the foam. Tilted his head to the left. Butch didn't even pause when he placed the blade on the side of his face. And dragged.

The blade slid on his skin. He could hear the hairs being cut. Feel it. But not the blade like he expected. In fact, he only felt a fraction of the blade as it glided down the side of his face, the metal only just grazing his ear. Butch readjusted his head and gave him an assessing look before he continued his work. Two strokes on this side, one stroke ending just on the edge of his cheekbone. Butch wiped the blade on the towel tucked in his belt, taking the foam off it. Foam and the cut hairs. Butch moved on to the area above his upper lip. Slid his fingers onto his skin, and pulled it taut. The blade skimmed across his moustache in several disjointed strokes. Butch released his skin. Wiped the blade again before running fingers down his cheek. Smoothly. Deliberately.

Had Butch ever cut anyone? How many chins did he have to shave to be good at this? The process so far had made Harkness hazy. He felt sluggish. Like his muscles had melted and moulded into the chair. He found himself seeking out hints of blue on the edges of his sight. Like the collar of Butch's Vault jumpsuit under the unzipped jacket as he reached to trace along Harkness' throat. The blade followed right behind that touch.

"Y'know, you can sleep if you want," Butch murmured, focused on tasks other than talking. "Everyone does."

"Was the Vault like this?" Harkness asked, forming the words hesitantly, feeling the blade still moving on him. He didn't know what it was he was actually asking.

"Fuckers in there like to rush." He watched as Butch walked around him.

"Don't you?" he asked back.

"Nah. I just hate waitin'." Butch dragged his fingers around his chin, making him swallow. "Nobody wants the whole… y'know." No. He didn't know. "But…uh. Haven't done this in a long time." He wiped the blade. "People like to keep their scruff out here. 'Cept you eh, Chief." Hands trailed over his chin, pressing into the skin of his neck as the blade neared his throat. "That an android thing?"

"Androids don't have hair."

"And what are you, tin man?"

"I'm…" He had no answers to that. A machine. A man. A little less of both. "…fucked up," he finished.

The thumb lining his jaw stopped. Butch loomed over him. Too close. A slow amused smirk formed on his lips. Harkness could see a faint dusting of freckles on his cheeks. Could see the half-healed cuts on his skin. And his mind noted: _Blue eyes. R53 G148 B158._

"Told you you're fucked up." Sneaky bastard. Butch shifted and the eye contact was gone. His system detected some off-grey colour on the ceiling instead, numbers ricocheting back and forth behind his lids. Fingers resumed their work on him, tilting his head and pulling his skin tight. There was a buzzing tingle just under his skin. "Man, I mean…You let Sister go. You gotta be fucked up to do that." Butch, clearly, had been talking to Lana. "He's gonna jump you first chance he gets. Then take you away. Or somethin'." Butch moved to his side and cupped his chin, thumb brushing the area where he always cut himself. It caused a tremor in his chest. Anticipation. "I don't trust him." Harkness stilled in his seat, feeling the blade disturb the hair in that area, like Butch was rubbing the blunt edge of the razor on it. Slowly, Butch pulled the sharp edge over the difficult area. Harkness could feel every small shift of the metal as it skimmed over his skin. And it didn't cut him at all. He felt himself sink a little more into the chair.

"This is not really your problem, is it?" It wasn't.

"Hey, man. You're the Chief. I'm the troublemaker. It _is _my problem." Butch slipped into Tunnel Snake Butch logic. And Harkness couldn't figure him out.

They didn't say much after that, even when Butch lathered his face a second time. He worked faster, now. Quicker. Efficiently picking out places he left out. When he was done, he wiped the excess lather off. Threw the towel onto the desk. He picked up the small bottle, squeezing its contents onto the palm of his hand. He rubbed the palms together before reaching for Harkness again. Pressing flat on his face, he kneaded liquid into his skin. Coarse. It burned a little. But that was probably just Butch's natural warmth seeping into his skin. When Butch finally perched on the desk and smirked at him, Harkness reached up to his own chin, sliding the back of his hands over his jaw. Smooth. The smoothest it had ever been since he grew hair. "Damn," passed his lips like he was breathless. Butch chuckled.

Harkness knew he should probably be getting up now. Be on alert for any slavers. Get away from Butch. Go to work.

But honestly… he didn't feel like going anywhere right now.


	17. Chapter 17

_Hey there, awesome people! Sorry that this chapter is short and late. This part was actually intended to be included in the previous chapter but it seemed out of place. So, we move on with the plot in this chapter. And trust me, we really, really need the new addition. That said, thank you very, very much for reading. I truly appreciate it. I would give each of you hugs if I could. If there's anything you like/dislike with the story or if you have any questions, send me a message. Thanks!_

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**Trouble  
Chapter 17**

He returned the room keys to Vera after spending a_ pointless_ 28 minutes 10 seconds listening to Butch whistling as though it sounded different than the usual brainwashing tune. It didn't. They found Seagrave in the lobby, as usual, for an early morning flirting session. Despite Seagrave's commanding presence, Vera invited Harkness to breakfast like she was inviting him to bed. Seagrave gave him a warning look. Butch snickered, complimented Vera and walked ahead of Harkness, leaving Seagrave to glare at his back. Harkness declined Vera's invitation, noting how she wasn't even affected by it anymore, before he was following the snake again.

"I ain't gonna do shit." Butch glanced at him. "You don't gotta escort me," he said but he had an easy smirk on his face. His hands were still in his pockets.

"Right." Butch glanced at him again. The smirk widened when Harkness fell into step beside him. Their elbows bumped as they walked.

Butch hadn't asked for payment for his service. When Harkness offered to pay, Butch shoved his crumpled shirt, _which was chucked into one of the desk drawers_, at him and handed him the holotapes. He noticed that the letter Zimmer had written to Eulogy wasn't with the other items. Apparently Butch still hadn't decided to part with it. And Harkness didn't feel like asking about it at the moment. Barber probably still wanted to memorise or whatever he wanted to do with it. It wasn't like he'd meet anyone who'd attempt to collar Harkness. Or any other androids working for Zimmer. His mind helpfully reminded him that he _had_ _been _one of those androids. Still, he couldn't deny it; the gesture was appreciated, no matter how pointless it was. Like shaving. Because his beard would just be back tomorrow.

He felt the prickle of heat up the back of his neck when he realised that he was touching his chin again. _Fifth time within the past hour_. He could feel how smooth it was. And warm. Like a constant heat was pulsing just underneath the layers of skin. This feeling stayed with him as they walked the halls. Down the stairs. To the Muddy Rudder. When they reached the bar, the door was open but Bonny was nowhere to be seen. He was stopped from leaving, however. Butch tugged his shirt into the bar for 'just a drink, Chief'. He wouldn't mind a drink because he realised that his throat felt parched. But it was evident that the place wasn't open for business yet. The bar was dark and the fridge was locked with an oversized rusty lock. Cursing, Butch fiddled with it before giving in. He took an unopened bottle of purified water on the counter and threw it at him.

Why didn't Butch just pick the lock? More importantly, why wasn't he more bothered by this display of petty thievery? Was it the bottle of Nuka Cola that charmed him? Or the shave?

They leaned against the wall, sharing the bottle as the listened to the ship waking from slumber.

"Chief," Butch nudged him with the bottle. "You seriously ain't gonna bust Sister?" Damn barber couldn't just let it go.

"No." He took the offered drink. "And you're not going after him either." Butch cursed. Harkness sipped and gave the bottle back to him. "Besides, no one's come for me yet." Other than Zimmer, anyway.

"What? So, you're gonna just… sit around and wait?" Butch made it sound like he had another choice other than 'sit around and wait'. What could he do? Hunt down all the slavers hunting him? That would be suicide. An _android_ suicide. Damn.

"Something like that." He watched Butch tip the bottle over his open mouth, the water flowing without touching his lips. Watched the Adam's apple bob with each swallow. Butch emptied the bottle.

"Y'know, Johnny was right," Butch finally said. His voice had gone soft for a moment. He looked… thoughtful.

"Johnny?"

"Yeah. Y'know...Johnny. The other asshat in a Vault jumpsuit." Right. He remembered the kid. But _that was_ 'Johnny'? Everyone knew him by something else: Messiah, Scourge, Saint and other creative variations. He hadn't heard anyone call him 'Johnny'. Butch was staring at him like he was an asshole. Honestly, he felt slightly like an asshole for not knowing that Johnny was _Johnny_. Especially after what the kid did for him. He watched as Butch carefully placed the now empty bottle among other empty bottles on the floor.

"What's…Johnny right about?" Butch turned to him, eyes darkening with some emotion. Then he gave a small smirk, which wasn't quite a smirk.

"You," he answered. Butch had said it like he was saying something entirely different. Harkness felt the same prickle of heat flare up his neck. He watched Butch watch him, the smirk was gone by now. And his gaze had increased its intensity. He knew that he should ask what the hell that was supposed to mean. But he didn't. Didn't move as well. And when Butch reached, he let the thumb graze the mark on his chin. This more persistent heat settled with him even after the touch was gone.

"Chief, I kinda like you with more scruff."

"…Right."

By the time he met up with Lana it was a little after noon, _14 minutes 54 seconds_. And the warmth was still there, sliding just under his skin. She was talking to both Vera and Seagrave about the weather and the ship's regulations. She waved at Harkness. Seagrave gave an exasperated sigh. Lana giggled like she was sharing a secret with Vera. She probably was.

Apparently, Crazy Wolfgang's caravan had arrived in Rivet City which meant that Seagrave could finally do some trading. The only reason Harkness could think up for Vera's presence was that this was some sort of fucked up date with Seagrave. The group walked across the bridge where the caravan had docked. Crazy Wolfgang greeted them with his signature half-crazed grin, explaining that he had been tracking an alien spaceship in the sky the 3 months he was gone. Even after the absence, he still looked the same. Smelled the same too. Unwashed. He rolled out his wares of odds and ends that appeared to be broken parts of junk. Basically, it _was_ junk. Human. Not alien. _Valuable_ junk. The kind that Seagrave claimed could be made into powerful weapons and ammo. Wolfgang had two caravan guards this time. One of them nodded at him under the brim of a helmet. The other grinned at him with certain familiarity, cigarette smoke escaping from the gaps between his teeth.

"Hey, Chief Hark. Your wires doing okay?"

It was Johnny._ The other asshat in a Vault jumpsuit._


	18. Chapter 18

_Thank you very much for reading! I appreciate it. You guys are the best. Seriously.  
Oh! And a special thanks to everyone who helped with the pip-boy question. This is the chapter your answers have helped create. Awesome._

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**Trouble  
Chapter 18**

It had been two days since he last saw Butch.

_2 days_ _15_ _hours 18 minutes 46 seconds_.

He had been standing framed in the darkness of the Muddy Rudder with half-healed cuts scattered on his face. Butch had said 'See you tonight, Chief' like he did everyday.

But he didn't come around that night. Or the next night. He wasn't around at all. Not that Harkness was expecting him – No. He _was_ expecting him, actually. On the edges of his vision, he kept seeking traces of black and blue, a snake on the back of a jacket, signals that he'd gotten used to. But there wasn't. And it felt… It felt... Keeping watch on the bridge. Walking alone in the ship. He had gotten used to Butch hanging around that when he wasn't, he could _feel_ his absence. Not acutely. But he could feel it just the same. Somehow, his system had integrated Butch into his routine.

Butch was probably with Johnny right now.

He should be.

He was, wasn't he?

Saying Johnny's name, his _real_ name, must've magically summoned the kid from many miles away, all the way to Rivet City. It might be a Vault thing. Their gadgets, the pip-boy, could probably summon people like that. Harkness used to have a similar program. It would call him whenever Zimmer wanted him and he'd stop everything to come back to the Institute. To kiss ass. Or to take out the trash. _Good fucking riddance._

_2 days_ _15 hours 40 minutes 27 seconds._

In all ways, Johnny was an incomplete equation. Most people knew at least one thing Johnny did but nobody really knew who he was. Except for Butch, apparently. And it turned out that one of Johnny's names was actually accurate. He _was_ a Saint. _Johnny _Saint. Or Saint Johnny, according to Mister Lopez. Johnny Saint had a tendency to evade any suspicion even though dark rumours followed him prior to the Purifier Incident. After that, everything seemed to be pardoned and the rumours died. Harkness knew little about the kid. But he knew that Saint was responsible for cleaner water in the Wastes. Responsible for eradicating the Enclaves. Responsible for reciting that code to him. _Activate A3-21 Recall Code Violet_. Responsible for breaking the dam that hid all his memories.

All those memories pre-Harkness flooded him when Saint uttered that code. They shot through his nerves and screamed at him. Before he could even separate his organic from machine, he was exposed to his darkest moments. Zimmer. The Institute. The Commonwealth. All the runners he took down. His whole life until the point of conversion. That was all true. And his current existence was a lie. He wasn't Harkness. He never had a wife. Or a divorce. Never been in a war. Those were planted memories. Everything he thought he knew was a lie. It was the worst kind of pain he had ever experienced. And he couldn't do anything about it. He couldn't determine _where_ it hurt. Couldn't stop it because it was intangible. He might've desynchronised for a moment but when he came to, only a second had passed and Saint was still in front of him. _Concerned. _For an android. His image was imprinted in the forefront of his mind.

_The old man. You want him dead?_

He understood that statement perfectly. And Harkness gave Johnny Saint his plasma rifle. He could have killed the bastard himself. And perhaps he should've; then, maybe he'd stop thinking about the dead bastard so much.

But a dead bastard was a dead bastard no matter who pulled the trigger.

He remembered thinking how strange it was to feel his 'heart' pounding too loudly in his chest while digits whirred in his system. He could feel currents through his wires and blood running through his veins simultaneously. This hybrid of energy confused him for a moment but he accepted it. Because he understood that he had chosen to do this to himself.

"Hey, Chief."

_Butch._

That greeting halted his thoughts and his steps. He turned to see Butch pushing off the wall he was leaning against. He had been twirling his switchblade, Harkness' buckle was still dangling from the handle. The cuts on his face had faded.

_2 days 16 hours 22 minutes 32 seconds._

"How's your wiring doing?" The usual greeting seemed less playful. Softer. So was the smirk.

Harkness expected to see Saint as well but the kid wasn't around.

"Where's Saint?"

"Doin' do-gooder shit." Right. He glanced at the door to see if the kid might appear at the mention of his name. The door stayed closed. That soft smirk was still on Butch's face as he walked up to Harkness. His footsteps barely made a sound. "Hey... Let's get outta here."

"I have bridge duty." Butch scoffed at that, the smirk never leaving his face. But his eyes were roaming over him. Like he was happy to see him. It was unsettling. "Where the hell do you want to go?"

"I wanna mess with your hair."

They ended up in front of the hotel room. The key to the room was in his grip as he waited for the door to unlock. Butch was picking the lock. And Harkness was watching him do it. Butch had somehow convinced him that this was a once in a lifetime opportunity to see a Tunnel Snake at work. He didn't need much convincing. It _was_ impressive. With concentration fixed on his face, Butch manipulated the lock using a screwdriver and a bobby pin. He twisted both instruments in the keyhole, shifting in small movements till the lock gave in to his persuasion with a click. Butch gave him a smug smile from his kneeling position by the door. Harkness opened the door. They entered. Shut the door behind them.

The room didn't look any different. But it felt changed. Less oppressive. More inviting. Butch smirked at him, tugged at his armour, then his shirt and then walked away. He wanted them off was what he meant. Watching Butch push the chair to the middle of the room made him feel the prickle of heat at the back of his neck.

Right.

He unbuckled his armour, slid it off his torso and placed it onto his – _the_ naval cot. He pulled the shirt underneath that over his head. Then as an afterthought, he took the holotapes out of his pockets to put them with the other articles. He didn't like having them close to him right now. He looked up to see Butch watching him, leaning over the chair frozen. Eyes open and intense. Butch gestured for him to sit in the chair. He obeyed. Immediately, he felt fingers trailing up his temple into the hair there and pulling strands loose.

"I'm gonna barber the hell outta that hair."

"Do what you want." Butch chuckled in response, as fingers carded through his hair. Less gentle this time. Messing it up as promised. The other hand resting on the back of his head was warm. The fingers squeezed, thumb sliding just under his hairline, dipping down to the juncture where neck met shoulder. The touch caused a warm ripple up his back, like too much current coursing through a wire. He stayed still despite the urge to move. Very soon, he felt the teeth of a comb scraping through his hair. The snip of a pair of scissors pierced the quiet and he wondered where the hell the tool came from. He felt a lock of hair land on shoulder. Butch brushed it off, the hair tumbling over his skin onto the floor. The next snip was somewhere closer to his ear, the metal grazing the lobe.

Harkness had had haircuts before. But nothing like this. There was a gentle swipe against his cheekbone. A puff of breath on his skin to blow cut hair to the floor. Twice, Butch tipped up his chin to see his progress. Twice, he murmured something into his ear. Curses, probably. Thrice, he peered into his face as he ran his fingers through the fringe. These less than professional touches gradually gave way to calculated ones. The process slipped into something more like a normal haircut. His fingers were parting his hair, measuring. After 12 minutes 53 seconds, Butch stood over him, the smirk forming on his face.

"Done?"

"Sure." Butch brushed a strand of hair off his chest. Raked fingers through his hair again. "But uh…I wanna try somethin'." He paced backwards, placing the scissors and comb carefully onto the desk. Harkness stood up and brushed the remaining cut strands of hair off his body. A small collection of hair decorated the floor. He stepped out of the pile of hairs, noting that Butch was pressing buttons on his pip-boy as he sat on the desk. He flicked at one of the knobs, turned it, _counter clockwise_, and there was a _schlick_ when the pip-boy unclamped itself from Butch's arm. The screen of the gadget went dark when it got separated from him but Butch didn't seem bothered by it. He squeezed his arm out of the gadget's straps and placed it onto the desk beside him. He wrenched the glove underneath the pip-boy off his hand. Flexing his fingers, he hissed; at the freedom, probably. Across the back of his left hand, there was a strip of much paler skin which had been hidden under the glove. Unmarked. Butch reached for the zipper of his jacket. He pulled the tab, separating the teeth apart as it ran down the zip, revealing the blue underneath.

"What are you doing?" Pointless question to ask. He knew what Butch was doing. Just… what the hell was he doing?

"I told you, Chief," Butch answered distractedly.

The slider was pulled till it hit the bottom, unhooking the ends and the jacket hung open. With movements that only a snake could do, Butch slithered out of the jacket. Rolled his shoulders to shrug the material off. Pulled down the sleeve off his right arm. Then the left. Now, he was just a blue jumpsuit, a white shirt and a smirk on his face. Instead of putting the jacket on the desk as well, he offered it to Harkness.

"Put it on." Harkness didn't touch the jacket until it was shoved into his hands. "Come on, Chief. I wanna see it." He had no idea what it was that Butch wanted to see. Still, he lifted the jacket and examined it, sliding his fingertips over the leather. Smooth and rough at the same time. Supple. Slowly, Harkness slid his arm in the sleeve, his flesh instantly latching on to the warmth that was left in the fabric. The jacket wrapped around him tightly when he pulled the two ends together before zipping up. It was warm. Snug around his shoulders, but only slightly. He could feel it on his skin when he breathed. He shrugged, unused to this overall constriction. How the hell could Butch stand this? Butch yanked him towards the desk. He gripped the tab, pulling the jacket open till it reached the middle of his stomach, exposing more skin. The action made him aware of how intimate this was. And that the jacket smelled strongly of Butch. And it was very warm under it. It was slightly troubling. Butch didn't say anything as he observed Harkness, only picked up his pip-boy and angled it so that Harkness could see his reflection in the dark screen.

He should have seen it coming. Barber even handed him the jacket didn't he? He shrugged again; the jacket felt stuck to his skin.

"Don't fuckin' touch it," Butch warned him when he attempted to reach for his hair.

"Fix it."

"Oh, come on. It's a one of a kind Tunnel Snake cut. Every self-respectin' Tunnel Snake has it." It wasn't one of a kind if every Tunnel Snake had the same hairstyle. Plus, he wasn't a Tunnel Snake. "What? You don't like it?" It wasn't that he didn't like it. It just made him look_ too_ different. "Makes you look like a badass Tunnel Snake Security Chief fuckin' machine." _That_ was according to Butch. Honestly, he simply resembled a Tunnel Snake. With the hair and the jacket and a bemused expression. But that was it. "I ain't ever gonna forget this."

"Butch."

"Fiiiine," Butch relented. But he sounded amused and the smirk widened. "Come here." He made Harkness sit on the desk while he fixed the hair into something less serpentine. Hands plunged into his hair. Styled it. Moulded it into something decent. It took lesser time to fix it than it was to construct it. When Butch was done, he sat on the desk beside him. They shared the silence in the room. The air felt light. Familiarly comfortable. Like their sessions on the bridge. All they needed now was a bottle of cola. Or water.

After 11 minutes 25 seconds, Harkness felt the tension mount. He turned to Butch, noting that he was fiddling with the knobs on the pip-boy. He looked strangely vulnerable without the black jacket and the pip-boy. Harmless. The pip-boy still on his lap and its screen was still dark. He could see Butch's reflection in that screen. And Butch …seemed troubled.

"Is there a problem?" Butch looked up at the sound of his voice. He stared at Harkness for 36 seconds before speaking.

"You won't forget me, right?" What?

"I'm not programmed to." The soft smirk slipped onto Butch's face at the answer.

"Chief, I'm leaving."


	19. Chapter 19

_Hey all! I apologise for the cliffhangers. Thank you very much for reading! I truly appreciate it. You guys are awesome. AWESOME._

* * *

**Trouble  
Chapter 19**

From the corner of the marketplace, he watched the ship greet the day. Seagrave and Bannon were arguing about something as they sat side by side at the galley while Gary watched them with interest, filling both their cups with a hot drink. Shrapnel was at his store alone, arranging the ordnance. He kept glancing at the door until Flak arrived, and then he pretended that he hadn't been waiting. They shared an apple and a cigarette for breakfast. Cindy wasn't at 'The Quick Fix' because she was with Paulie in their room. The rest of Rivet City continued their daily routines and now that Harkness knew where everyone was, he opened the door to the middeck to start his rounds. He walked down the halls, aiming for the stairwell –

A blur of black and blue stirred to his right. He jerked his head up to look down the corridor. The air was still. Nothing. No footsteps. No sounds of breath. He stepped into the hallway, trailing his fingers on the nearest door handle. Cold. Locked. He pulled back his hand. Took a deep breath. Scanned the empty corridor. Nothing.

Bullshit.

This was the fifth time this had happened in the past 46 days 9 hours 43 minutes 18 seconds. What the hell was happening? His system was betraying him. It was taking liberties with his fucked-up state and he found himself chasing ghosts. Bullshit. He continued walking, listening for a pair of footsteps other than his own. There was none. He headed out to the bridge. Earlier than scheduled.

The sunlight stared down at him; he stared into the water below. He didn't want to note the exact shade of sunlight in RGB, even though the digits whirred behind his eyes. He could feel the scorching warmth seeping into his skin like a mocking imitation of much more comfortable warmth. There was tightness when he shifted his muscles. He was tense.

Johnny Saint might be a Tunnel Snake – No. He_ was _one.

He stole Butch away without doing anything – No. Butch left. That was what happened.

Upon exiting Rivet City that night, they found Saint lit up in the darkness, a focal point on the other end of the bridge. He had a flame on him, burning from a lighter. And he was staring at it, mesmerised, the light flickering wildly over his face. He didn't seem to acknowledge their presence at all. On this side of the bridge, Harkness felt certain warmth. Not from Saint's fire. But from Butch who had leaned against the railing, his eyes on Harkness. Watching. Studying. Like always. As though there was something _more_ to see in his face. There wasn't. Butch had seen everything. Mapped it with his hands. His fingers. The blade of a razor. But he was staring at Harkness like there was something new. Different. Maybe there was. The air felt changed somewhat; he didn't know how. Meeting that gaze made the familiar warmth hum under his skin, like he was still wearing the jacket but he wasn't. He noted the small smirk hovering on Butch's lips, pulled a little more to the left than the right. He noted the jacket zipped all the way to his neck, collar turned up. He noted the hands shoved into his pockets. The gaze soft, warm yet sharp. They didn't say anything. What _was_ there to say? He watched as Butch inched away, walking to the bridge. Backwards. The gaze didn't waver. Neither did the smirk. It was the 'Hey, Chief' smirk only he was saying goodbye. His footsteps on the metal bridge were the only sounds in the silence. Halfway across, Butch turned to Saint, the snake on his back continuing its gaze on Harkness for him. And '_Butch_' was on the tip of his tongue. At the front of his system. There was a _pointless_ desperation within him. This_ baseless_ urge to call to him. To ask him to wait. For what? There was nothing here. Even his pockets were empty. Butch had taken the holotapes and the letter; everything. His system recorded every step. Every swing of the arm. Every look over the shoulder as though it was Harkness that was leaving Butch on the bridge. At the other end, Saint killed the light. And two shadows disappeared in the dark. Harkness pried his hands away from the railing.

That was 46 days 10 hours 14 minutes 7 seconds ago.

And for a moment, the empty bottle of cola in his grip felt like the metal railing pressed against his palm. His fingertips were betraying him. His mind told him he was being ridiculously illogical. He was. He placed the bottle onto the floor beside him. 39 minutes 18 seconds later, Lana appeared, singing a song that he recognised was playing on the Galaxy News Radio. She bumped into his shoulder as a greeting, managing to tip him slightly with that action. Then she leaned against him and sighed. He didn't know what to make of that sigh. Maybe she was feeling the emptiness that the ship had come to hold lately. This stranded hollow metal vessel.

"Is there a problem?" he asked.

"With Toby? Nope." That wasn't exactly what he was asking. But, that was still good to hear. He nodded at her, seeing her grin. She elbowed him before leaning on his shoulder again. "Can you believe Vera's plan actually worked?" She snorted, sounding like she was inhaling water through her nose. She spoke in a way that suggested that he knew what she was talking about. He didn't. "Glad that's over with. Toby's such a jerk when he's jealous. He's lucky Butchie keeps his promises about not hitting him…" Harkness stilled. The name falling from her lips made a kind of sudden gnawing ache move within his body. Lana must've noticed his uneasiness. She lifted her head to scrutinise him for a long time, 45 seconds, before she poked him hard in the shoulder. "You spend so much time with him and you don't know?"

"Barber doesn't tell me anything." _Didn't._ He shrugged again, feeling the tightness spreading under his skin. His system _ached_.

"Hark, aren't you a security chief?" she asked; her tone was affectionate. Her serious expression softened. "We pretended to be together just to piss Toby off. So that he'll decide on me. It worked." Harkness turned to the water, noting how green it was, more green than blue. He ignored the digits whirring behind his lids, struggling to capture that shade. He ignored Lana still staring at him as though she could see his thoughts.

"I'm happy for you," he said.

"Tell me again when you're actually smiling." Lana resumed leaning on him.

Seagrave finally pushed open the door of the stairwell, in the middle of explaining to Vera that he needed more steam gauge assemblies for one of his experiments. For a 'powerful gun that would whistle when you shoot'. Vera laughed in response, a carefree sound that didn't sit well with the day. They started their escort mission, heading towards the sound of a pack Brahmin bellowing. Harkness slid his palm along the railing, reminding himself that a layer of synthetic skin separated the metal in him from meeting the one of the railing. He didn't know how simply walking across this bridge had turned into a significant event in his mind. Ridiculous. He wasn't trying to think of anything – No. He was trying not to think.

Crazy Wolfgang greeted them with his signature grin while the caravan guard tipped his hat at Harkness. It was a different caravan guard this time. How many guards did Wolfgang go through in a year? Probably as many times as he changed his pants. Probably more frequent than that. Wolfgang rolled out his wares, confessing that he couldn't seem to chart the alien spaceship anymore but that was fine because he had found a town of cannibals to trade with. A new assortment of colourful junk was settled in the pack. Harkness skimmed over the pile of valuable junk. Pots. Pressure cookers. Sensor modules. Three suspicious slabs of red meat. A box of cram. Seagrave immediately began bartering on a pilot light. Beside him, Lana and Vera were turning over a leather belt. Harkness examined their surroundings. There was a weathered trail leading through the ruins straight ahead. A clear road turning into the Jefferson memorial to the left. A watery path down the river under the bridge. There was no one around. He wondered why the hell he was expecting any different.

_46 days 11 hours 33 minutes 10 seconds._

The pack Brahmin nudged him in the back, asking for some attention. He turned. Running his fingertips along its side, he could feel the coarse smoothness of its skin. There was a rug of some sort folded on top of the animal and on top of that was another roll of junk; a crutch was sticking out of it. The bundle was slipping off, the cords digging into the animal. Harkness arranged it, pushing the cords into a possibly more comfortable position. When he shifted the rug, a glint of metal caught his eye. He stilled.

Bullshit.

_Bullshit._

"See something you like, Sir or Madam?" Wolfgang addressed him, following his line of sight. "Hmm…You have good taste, sweetheart." Wolfgang plucked the item from the pack and pressed it into his hands.

His mind – fingers – at _this_ moment, they weren't betraying him. This was real. Familiarly real. The smooth handle. The sharpened blade. The buckle dangling from the end of it…

_Butch's toothpick._


	20. Chapter 20

**Trouble  
Chapter 20**

Paradise Falls had fallen.

The generators were blown up. And the fire it caused ripped through the town in the night. It took four days to die. And when it did, the place died with it.

There was nothing left. Very few things were intact. Everything had disintegrated. Bodies burned beyond anything human, posed in their last moments of life. The piles crumbled as soon as they were disturbed. Under the layers of ash were things of value, protected from the flames. That was where Wolfgang searched.

For two whole days, Wolfgang rifled through the mess. Picking up pieces. Matching them up. Searching for things of value. There wasn't much. But there was enough.

He found Butch's toothpick under a human-shaped pile of ash.

_...fuck._

As though it still held the heat from the fire, the metal cut into Harkness' palm. Scorching. Unyielding. The switchblade peeked out from his fist and stared at him. The buckle made imprints in his flesh. He squeezed tighter just to _feel_ how real it was. Something choked his throat but his system confirmed there was nothing there. There was a deep gnawing ache in his body. Still nothing. This intangible ache flowed to the tips of his fingers but he couldn't touch it. Didn't know where it was and how to heal it. His system was at war with his human side, pushing and pulling and tearing him apart. It was a confused mess in his head. He didn't know what he was thinking about, only that he kept calling up instances of Butch in his mind. Over and over. Like he couldn't control it. Because his human side wanted to see Butch. But his wired side couldn't understand it. And he didn't know what to do.

But he wanted to run to Paradise Falls.

Just to see. To _know_. To make sure that the owner of this toothpick wasn't –

_Fuck._

The most frustrating thing was that he knew _why_ the Vault kid had been there. He knew why Paradise Falls was chosen.

It was slaver country. That was why. And now that it had been wiped out, no slaver was coming for Harkness. To collar him and take him away.

But really…_what was the point?_

What was it worth, now? His_ freedom_?

There was nothing left. What _else _could possibly be found? And could he even recognise if one of the bodies was– Did he even want to know?

Now, no slaver was coming for him. No one was coming for him.

This was…

He didn't…

He wasn't programmed to deal with this.

His system calculated probability, figures, digits, timing, facts. And it told him to be logical. There was _nothing_ left for him to find at Paradise Falls.

For the first time, he knew where Butch was… And had no way of reaching him.

An odd shimmer alerted him.

There was a figure was next to him. Perched on the bridge railing.

He stilled. Didn't move when he observed from the corner of his eyes. A blue clad leg. A black jacket hunched over. A bulky gadget strapped to an arm. It was solid. Opaque. When he turned to take a proper look, he found himself staring at the sky.

_R53 G148 B158..._

"You've been here since yesterday." Lana nudged him on the shoulder. He didn't hear her open the stairwell door. "What is it?" She peered into his face. "Is there trouble in Rivet City?"

"No." He tightened his grip on the toothpick. "There's no trouble on the ship."

**end of part 1**

* * *

_That's it. We've come to the end. I apologise that this chapter is so short. But I wanted it to say only what it needed to say. _

_I'm sorry if this has disappointed you in any way. I know you probably have a lot of questions. So, I'll answer some of them. Well, a few of them, rather. First off, there will be more parts to this story. If this was on TV, this would be the end of the first season or something. There are a total of three parts and there are several chapters in them. Yeaaaaa... it's kinda long. It is, isn't it? I apologise for that, and I understand if you don't like it and want to send me hate mail. I totally understand. Secondly, all subsequent parts will follow this chapter. So, you don't have to edit your story alerts or bookmarks. Thirdly, and probably the most important point... There won't be a chapter this next week. Because I'll be without Internet access. Hopefully, I'll get the first chapter on the second part up the week after that. _

_Also, thank __**you **__very much. Thank you for reading. For following this story. For all your wonderful comments. (Anonymous reviewers, thank you for your reviews. I usually give personal thank you replies to reviews but seeing as I don't have any way to contact you, I'll say it here. Thank you very, very much!) For taking the time to leave a review. For all the valuable support and the encouragements. Seriously, you guys totally helped this story. Awesome. And I truly appreciate it. _

_Lastly, have a happy holiday. And I'll see you in the next chapter. _

_- Rusty _


	21. Chapter 21

_Hello once again, my lovely readers! Hope you had a great end-of-2010. Thank you very much for your patience. I hope this chapter is worth the wait. Thank you very much for reading and for your awesome comments. (__**candice**__, sorry I didn't have a Christmas present for you. But here's the next chapter, anyway. And __**Woot69**__, thank you very much for your kind words. I'm glad you enjoyed the fics :D ) Ahem. Everyone, welcome to Part 2 of Trouble._

* * *

**Trouble**  
**Chapter 21**

The ceiling was pockmarked with tiny craters; it looked like an imitation of the sky. The digits in his mind ticked as they captured shades in RGB. Captured darker shades when he eyed the empty holes. The dust suspended in the air continued their trajectory, undisturbed by the sudden bark from Seagrave. He was laughing at something, his snorts echoing loudly in Vera's lobby amidst Lana's and Vera's giggles._ Bannon._ They were laughing about Bannon. As usual.

At the moment, he wasn't required to share his input during the conversation. He watched the others discuss 'worldly' matters confined within the city. _Did you hear about the fight in the Muddy Rudder last night? Hun, there hadn't been a fight in months._

Right.

He accepted Vera's invitation to tea for the first time 4 months 12 days 1 hour 9 minutes 45 seconds ago. Maybe one of Seagrave's glares finally got to him. Maybe he had one too many colas. Either way, these breaks turned out alright. They made him feel integrated. Integrated to life. At first, they were more like interrogations, with Vera asking him about the latest gossip on the ship. Like whether Ted wore shorts or nothing at all underneath his overalls. Or if it was true that Shrapnel couldn't sleep without Flak. Or if Bannon was secretly selling the clothes he couldn't fit in anymore because he had added on some bulk. Obviously, Harkness was clueless about most things and Vera eventually caught on. Now, she just handed him a bottle of water and pushed bowls of potato crisps to him. And just like Lana, she fussed over his lack of sleep or nutrition even though he was _100% in operation_. She only worked her charms on him whenever Seagrave was around, her fingers lingering over his arm, her face hovering a bit too close. 'I play hard to get' she explained after confessing that she actually was 'fond' of the jealous bastard. Complicated.

Vera nudged him, asking if he wanted more drink. He declined, the almost full bottle of water staring up at him. Lana reached over and squeezed his hand for just a moment, her hand soft and warm on his. 'Come back to the ship, Hark' was what she was saying in that touch. Right. He _was_ here. Nowhere else. He shifted in his seat and glanced at the other three occupants of the room. They had moved on to discussing the abandoned-again Supermutant stronghold across the bridge.

Some days ago, _29 days 3 hours 16 minutes 17 seconds ago_, one of his guards on flight deck duty reported a group of 6 muties making their way towards Rivet City. The muties came through the path in the ruins and docked at the abandoned stronghold; the place had been empty for close to a year. Immediately, Rivet City reeled in its bridge. Cut itself off from the Wastes. Loaded its guns and braced for a fight. Two days later, the muties attacked the ship. Without the bridge, the muties couldn't reach close enough to grab and haul anyone anyway. But they resorted to miniguns and missiles, managing to cause sizeable dents and holes in the ship's metal. The guards moved up to the flight deck, defending the ship from higher ground. It wasn't an easy task. Muties were made of something quite impenetrable; their skins were a mix of tough leather and corrugated metal. The fight lasted for almost 2 hours. But Rivet City held. And the muties were terminated. Their corpses were pushed into the water, currents dragging them away. The stronghold was searched. It seemed like the muties were stragglers of some kind, arriving at the stronghold with no apparent direction. There were no blueprints or plans for a full-scale mutie attack on Rivet City. In fact, there was barely anything in the stronghold, other than the pile of human remains scrunched up into gorebags that littered a corner of the place. There were hands and legs sticking out of it. Rotting discarded innards spilled out from it. There was a kneecap, an eyeless skull and a thumb on the floor. Spatters of stale blood caked the area. On top of a desk turned into a makeshift table was a larger than usual cleaver. Chunks of human meat, skinned and deboned were placed onto plates – as though table etiquette was one of the last traces of humanity left ingrained within a mutie. A huge fire was burning in the middle of the camp. _That_ was difficult to miss. Even across the bridge it could be seen, burning bright red against the sky. A corpse had been flayed and tied over the fire. He ordered his guards to put the fire out. He resolutely stared at the smoke in the sky. And not the charred remains, even when the smell clogged his nostrils. He refused to look at the burned human-shaped remains when the fire was gone. He wasn't going to think. No.

"Where are you going, hun?" Vera stood up next to him. He swallowed the _nothing _choking up his throat. "We haven't even finished our tea yet…" What tea? All of them were drinking alcoholic concoctions. Her voice trailed off as her fingers brushed the back of his hands. She was searching his face as though answers were written there. He met her eyes.

"I'm checking on my gun," he replied. Half-truth. His rifle had been at Flak's for a couple of days, _2 days 17 hours 8 minutes 3 seconds_. It had been jamming frequently recently. Vera peered a little closer, that he could smell the vodka on her breath, could see her red lips glistening with the drink. With another brush on the back of his palm, she stepped back to Seagrave's relief. He exited the lobby.

Upon stepping into the hallway he pulled out the pack of cigarettes from his pocket and tipped the lid open. Four sticks left. He tugged one stick out with his teeth and bit down, pinning it between his lips. He slid open the box of matches. Struck one match, lighting up the end of his cigarette. He flicked the match away. Inhaled. Exhaled. The first puff stained his throat and his vision. He walked. Past the third hallway, blue and black blurred beside him through the smoke. He shut the door on it, entering the marketplace.

"Harky-boy," Shrapnel greeted him with a half-salute from the sofa in the shop as he rested his elbows on his knees. Flak greeted him with his usual grunt as he handed the assault rifle back to Harkness, muttering that the repair was 'on the house'. Of course it was. It was what they agreed on when he won another game of pool in the Muddy Rudder 3 nights ago. Honestly, it felt like cheating. Playing against Flak or Shrapnel or Trinnie was like cheating. The first game he played was approximately 5 months ago; it was one of the nights when it got too… unbearable to do bridge duty. He had walked into the still open Muddy Rudder to hear Trinnie trying to persuade Bonny from closing up too early. They made a deal, well, Bonny made a deal on his behalf. If he lost a game of pool against Trinnie, then Bonny would keep the bar open for the night. The game was simple: _push the balls into the holes with the pool cue without touching the black ball till the end_. First game he had ever won. And it led on to more games after that. Initially, he let Shrapnel, Trinnie or Flak win by deliberately 'accidentally' hitting the black ball. Then, he found himself reverting to precision. Only because it took too much effort to be anything else. Plus, Brock and Bonny usually betted on him to win. It was reason enough to play like that. Reason enough to play like an android. Calculating the angles, paths, distance, speed and pressure was something his system fully immersed itself in and he willingly let it. It was a temporary relief to make his system operate on more practical things that he could understand. Because when there was nothing happening, there was nothing but his thoughts, memories and bullshit keeping him company.

He collected his rifle from Flak and strapped it on, feeling its familiar weight settle across his back. He watched the rest of the marketplace go about their routines. Gary was teaching Angela how to cook. Cindy was napping at the Quick Fix, head lolling over the edge of her chair. Here at Flak and Shrapnel's, Shrapnel was talking about his past as a raider, something about seeing a caged Supermutant Behemoth getting electrocuted. It was the scotch talking. Always the scotch. While he was bobbing his head telling tales, Flak had a small smile on his face hidden under his moustache. He must've heard this all before, for sure. Maybe Shrapnel truly couldn't sleep without Flak around. Maybe it worked the other way around too. Flak asked if Harkness was heading to the bar for a short game. He couldn't. He had_ bridge duty at 1800 hours_.

He waited till 1909 hours before leaving Shrapnel on the sofa. On the way to the exit, he tugged out another cigarette from his pack. He kept it between his teeth, pressing the tip of his tongue on the side of it, getting it in position for his shift. The evening sky looked down on him as he pushed the door open. He dismissed Toby who went into the marketplace with a cheerful 'Good night, Boss' even though Harkness was an hour late. Since being engaged to Lana, Toby had been more tolerably competent. Hell. Some things _did_ get better.

The bridge stretched over the water, leading the way to the rest of the world. The weathered trail through the ruins straight ahead. The clear road turning into the Jefferson memorial to the left. The watery path along the river to the right. There was no one around. As usual.

He finally lit the stick and threw the spent match into the water below. Inhaled. Exhaled. He watched the smoke bleed grey into the sky. _R25 G42 B38. R18 G30 B27. R10 G22 B19._ The digits flitted back and forth in small increments, adjusting to the swirls of smoke. This haziness blurred the sharpness in his sight. It muffled colours. Made things softer. 34 minutes, _19 seconds_, later, he caught the shimmer of dulled blue, perching on the railing next to him. As solid as always. And intangible. He wasn't going to acknowledge it. Not yet. If one disappeared, another will replace it too soon. These ghosts… They were determined. Sneaky little fuckers.

His fingers twitched, wanting to touch the leather pouch in his pocket. He wasn't going to. It was ridiculous. Just like this ghost haunting him.

It wasn't exactly a ghost. He knew that. But what the hell was it? A figment of his imagination? Bullshit. Androids didn't have much of an imagination. And he didn't either. He had probably gone rogue and his system was still in denial over it. It even drove him to ask Father Clifford about it. About the nature of ghosts, or 'spirits' as the reverend called it. Father Clifford said that 'spirits' could be earthbound for reasons such as guilt or fear. Or they had to conduct unfinished business. Or simply because they were tied to objects or people. Seeing that it was worth a try, he had left the leather pouch in his locker for a day to see if the ghost would still visit him. It did. He wasn't going to believe that it was him the ghost was tied to either because _hell_, he wasn't people.

He felt the tension spread in his back before it dissipated; like getting a flash of heat upon accidentally touching an open flame. It burned for a while, and then it was gone, travelling to rest with the mess of issues he hadn't figured out. The tangle of _illogical_, _unresolved_ mess that resided somewhere in him. He was going rogue, wasn't he?

He had probably gone through too many cigarettes that he was finally affected by it. That he had finally gotten addicted to it. An android with an addiction. Not heard of. Not unheard of either. No. He wasn't addicted. But having this cloud in his sight… helped.

Because when he couldn't see so clearly, he could pretend _it_ wasn't there.

_But_, of course, he could still see _it_. It and its resemblance. Just sitting on the railing next to him. Numerous times, _11 times_, he attempted to speak to it. _You're dead_. It didn't respond until he turned to face it. And it dematerialised for him.

Now, slowly, he flicked his gaze to his right. It disappeared. For the 145th time on the bridge railing. And the 207th time in general since this began 6 months 29 days 20 hours 49 minutes 51 seconds ago. It disappeared.

Approximately 2 hours later, he heard footsteps on the bridge. His companion had appeared again, now, re-enacting its favourite scene. The one where it was walking across the bridge back to Rivet City.

He took a deep inhale of the second-last cigarette in the pack and exhaled to the sky, drawn to the movement yet trying not to be. The slowly diminishing distance. The black jacket. The blue pants. The arm gadget. Footsteps -

Actually, he shouldn't be _hearing_ footsteps. And blood - he shouldn't be _smelling_ blood either.

..._Bullshit_.


	22. Chapter 22

_Hello, again! Thank you for your patience and for reading and for your shining awesomeness! __**Woot69**__, glad you liked the way Harkness says 'bullshit'. And I agree on the lack of Butch/Harkness. Thank you for your review, __**candice**__. (I usually like to give personal replies to reviews but I can't seem to personally contact the both of you, so here are your replies.) That said, here's the next chapter. Hope you enjoy it._

* * *

**Trouble**  
**Chapter22**

Open wound. Lead pipe. The swing tore a ragged strip across the stomach. Flesh wound. Not deeper. Must've dodged fast enough. But still close enough to get cut. Swollen red on its edges. Dark purple at its entry. Another yellowish purple bruise forming over a hint of a rib. Lost weight? But developed a stronger core. Muscles more defined. Dim light from the desk sloped over its definitions. Tanned. Uneven. Freckled. Sparse. New scars. White lines. Two long ones down the navel. Deep enough that it needed stitches. Fully healed. One pale scar curled over the left shoulder. Three scratches across the right forearm.

"He's been running on adrenalin. But don't worry – he just needs the rest now. I doubt he'll wake so soon seeing that he collapsed on you…" Preston turned to him; all bright eyes and a doctor's patient smile. The stethoscope glinted in the light. "Let him sleep and I'll see you in the morning. Good night, Harkness. Vera."

Heavy footfalls left the room. Softer footfalls from a pair of slippers moved closer to him.

"Poor dear. His shirt is ruined. I'll get something from Bannon for him. All that blood…" her voice trailed off as she inspected the torn white shirt drenched with blood. The red did not _all_ come from the wound. It wouldn't cause that much blood. She sighed beside him, the sound loud in the room. He knew she was staring at him as she pressed close for a moment. She was waiting for acknowledgment. Or reassurance probably. But he couldn't seem to look away from the supine figure in front of him. Another sigh to his right. A gentle squeeze around his hand. She picked up the rest of the discarded clothing on the floor and stepped out of the room. She didn't close the door behind her. But the walls immediately closed in on him. It blurred around the edges of his vision even though he didn't have a lit cigarette between his lips.

Was this real?

Bullshit. He was talking to himself. His own voice disturbed the silence; it came out as a hoarse whisper, like his throat had just been crushed. What the hell was that question supposed to mean? Because, of course, this was real. He had seen Preston clean the wounds and dress it. Had seen Vera push back dark hair from a sweaty forehead. Had felt the heavy weight as it collapsed on him. This was tangible. That warmth. Pressed against him. Smearing his cheek and his neck with red tracks from a tired face. Fingers clutching when he fell. Like a strange, clingy embrace hanging from the _other _buckle of his armour, the one that was still attached to him.

Right. This was fucked up.

Because this right here; this was close to impossible. _Should_ be impossible…

Everyday for 6 months 29 days 23 hours 5 minutes 37 seconds, he had argued that this wasn't going to happen. He had managed to convince himself each time. All those clues. All that information. All those charts and diagrams and trajectories in chronological order. They suggested that this scene wouldn't happen. It wasn't _supposed_ to happen.

Yet here he was. Here _they_ were and _hell_, he had never felt so fucked up before.

He couldn't deal with this.

Hadn't been able to.

For 6 months 29 days 23 hours 5 minutes 37 seconds, he couldn't fully figure this all out. He didn't have the capacity. This psychological, emotional bullshit; he wasn't programmed to deal with this. It was a mess in his system.

This mess in him, stagnant, dormant and insistent, now decided to push him to do something. What? He didn't know what to do. What did anyone do in situations like this? He just gripped tighter, his fingers squeezing unyielding metal kept safe within a leather pouch.

It was a mess. Everything was a mess.

On the bridge, approximately 30 minutes ago, he had looked up, straight at a ghost walking across the bridge. And it didn't fade. Instead, it charged into him. Almost tripped him by the force of it. Then, there was a deep chuckle in his ear before the weight slipped down, solid and heavy. It was then that his hands came away wet, sticky and red. And the side of his face, his neck was coated with the same substance. His system got blissfully preoccupied with complicated theories; it calculated and ploughed through concepts without him as he hauled the solid warmth down to Preston. He woke Vera up who gasped at the sight. She unlocked the room and the good doctor got to work. But the leather was in the way and –

And he remembered how to slide off a pip-boy.

He had flicked at one of the knobs, turned it, counter clockwise, and there was a _schlick_ when the pip-boy unclamped itself from an unresponsive arm. He did this without hesitation, as though he had done it numerous times before. He hadn't. When he pulled the gadget off, the screen darkened; it had been showing a Vault kid with Xs for eyes. He left the glove on. But the doctor stripped the patient of everything else. Cleaned the cuts. Dressed the wounds. Arranged the limbs into a comfortable position on the naval cot. Checked the pulse. Temperature. Pulled back the eyelids to reveal the blue underneath.

That familiar _blue_. That _warmth_. That familiar warmth. And that familiar _scent_. Underneath all the rusty smell of blood. It was… overwhelming. And it shouldn't be; because he had filed this all away a long time ago. Longer than 6 months 29 days 23 hours 5 minutes 37 seconds ago. But there it was. And here they were.

His fingers twitched again. It wanted to touch. To confirm that this was real –

Of course this was real. The sound of deep breathing in the room didn't come from him. The light snores weren't his. In fact, he was just standing here looking down at a supine figure. Hadn't moved for some time, _1 hour 17 minutes 18 seconds_.

It would be light soon. He should call on Lana to head to the bridge seeing that it was unguarded now. He should. But he couldn't seem to disentangle himself from this scene and his fingers from the leather pouch in his pocket. He was stuck here as though he was pinned down. His focus never wavered. He didn't look away from the sleeping occupant. All that flesh. That skin. The sheen of sweat. The rising and falling chest. The tightly shut eyes. The parted lips. The tousled hair. The barely there smirk, _pulled a little more to the left than to the right_.

When soft footfalls entered the room again, he realised he had been standing here for 3 hours 27 minutes 10 seconds. And when he turned to face Vera, the figure was still lying on the naval cot. It didn't disappear.


	23. Chapter 23

_Hey all. Thank you for reading. And thank you very, very much for all your reviews. Love you guys. __**Sin**__, haha. Yeah, I have been told I am evil. Sorry about that. Thank you for your kind words. Glad that you liked Harkness' confusion. __**Woot69**__, I love how you describe the fic as 'brutally romantic' – awesome. And your question: 'I am dying to know if there will be sex, how graphic it will be, and how you'll pull it off.' You know, that is a great question. I really want to write some sexytimes, cause it's something I need practice on and it __**is**__ Butch and Harkness. But at the same time, I'm not so sure whether the scene will fit seeing how the fic is progressing at the moment. So, I don't really know how graphic it will be and how I'll pull it off (if I do pull it off, that is). Thank you for your question, Woot69. I'll definitely keep it in mind._

_And oooh. The amazing __**lilibombe**__ has done something so very special. Check it out everyone: lilibombe(.)deviantart(.)com/art/Fallout3-Butch-Deloria-193619399 Takes my breath away. Thank you very, very much :D_

_Well, that's a loooong A/N. Now, on to the story. Hope you enjoy this chapter._

* * *

**Trouble  
Chapter 23**

The water was cold; it woke him up. Not that he had been sleeping but he felt a bit more alert. He hadn't realised he had been feeling considerably warm. Pulling the shirt over his head, he laid it on the bench next to his armour. He ran the cloth under the running tap again and wiped the blood off his face. Off his neck. Rivulets of cold water dripping down his skin were stained red. He watched the smudges disappear. He turned to the prints – red fingerprints on his arms. He scrubbed at the skin. Scrubbed at his face, feeling this urge to lean his head against the mirror. His body was acting as though he was weak. He wasn't. He was still _100% in operation_. He was just tense. He could feel tension running down his back.

He dried himself, pulled on his shirt, then his armour. His steps directed him to the room where the door was still ajar like he left it. It was tempting to peek inside – bullshit. He had already spent too much of the day staring down pointlessly at someone sleeping. He wasn't about to do it again. Besides, Preston and Vera would check on the patient soon enough. And he needed to do his duties anyway.

Right.

He headed to the Muddy Rudder.

He realised halfway through the game that Shrapnel and Flak weren't getting along. Their biting remarks to each other were sharper. More hostile. Less friendly. And Shrapnel was betting on Harkness to win instead of Flak. A hundred caps and a new 9mm. He should've been able to notice the strain much, much earlier. But he hadn't. And now they were attempting to use him to solve their problem.

"Don't start your shit with me," Shrapnel growled when Flak snatched their bottle of scotch from his hands. Flak grunted something that only Shrapnel seemed to understand. A round of glares. Snarls. Petty name-calling. Shrapnel finally pulled out a cigarette from his crumpled pack, calling Flak a 'cocky fucking twat'_. _The ex-raider made the room tenser just by exuding some of his contained aggression. This, in turn, made Sister fidget, made Brock increase his guard, made Bonny and Trinnie snappish. Aggression compressed into a small space; never a good thing. Flak glanced twice at Shrapnel during the process of lighting his stick with a disposable plastic lighter. From their conversation, it became apparent that they weren't really arguing about the rent or sales or scotch or molerats that they had been arguing about. It was something deeper. Flak was _concerned_. Because he had found empty Med-X syringes in their bin. And he was 'hopin' to God, Shrap you stupid bastard' wasn't trying to get addicted again.

"Harky-boy, you playing or what?" Flak called from across the table. There was this tinge of worry in his face; not that Shrapnel could see it. He was pointedly ignoring his friend. Harkness picked up the pool cue and lined the shot. When they were _both_ close to winning, he forfeited the game. He discreetly told Flak to use the 100 caps to get rid of the addiction while Shrapnel was cussing at him and the unfairness of life.

Outside the Muddy Rudder, he paused to look up at the flight of stairs as he leaned against the railing. No one there. He slid out the pack of cigarettes. One stick left. The unlit stick of cigarette made it between his teeth and he flung the pack onto a pile of empty bottles. He contemplated picking it up to crush it before flinging it back onto the pile. But he didn't. His feet made their way back to the room while his mind worked on the mess on its own. His system couldn't get around it. The cigarette between his lips stayed unlit.

The door to the room was now closed. Vera must've shut it before she left the hotel to run her errands. He reached for the handle. Twisted it. Pushed it open.

There was nobody there.

The naval cot was empty.

He stood dumbly in the doorway. Had he been imagining— No.

There was definite evidence that someone had been here. A glass of water had been poured and drunk from; there was a damp lip print on the rim of the glass. A stray droplet slid down its side. There was a faint imprint on the cot; someone had lain there. Whoever it was had only recently just left the room; the imprint had residual warmth. The bloodied baseball bat was still on the other cot. Next to it was the empty 10mm in its holster. The jacket that had been hung over the chair was gone. And the pip-boy was nowhere in sight.

He took a step back to scan the hallway, as though opening an empty room would summon anything or anyone.

Right.

Pulling the door shut, he struck a match. The fire flickered wildly as he lit the cigarette. He threw the match onto the floor somewhere as he directed himself to the marketplace.

He wasn't going to search right now. He had duties.

He managed to walk past Preston's clinic without glancing inside.

Flak and Shrapnel still weren't present at their shop. Vera was with Seagrave at his shop, rummaging through the huge metal trunk he had. Seagrave confessed once that it held numerous bits of junk that had potential use for weapon improvements but so far, nothing had come out of it. They didn't look up when he passed. Angela was wiping tables. Gary was stirring a pinkish mixture in a chipped, transparent plastic bowl. Bannon was writing something into a partially scorched book entitled 'Tales of a Junktown Jerky Vendor', Cindy was napping yet again and Ted Strayer was warming his hands over the open barrel of fire.

He had a pretty good idea of where everyone was. _Most_ everyone.

He inhaled deeply before stepping out onto the bridge. Exhaled a long stream of smoke into the sky, indulging in the way the digits whirred, trying to capture shades as quickly as it could. The smoke swirled, blurring streams of blue sky. Across the bridge the Supermutant stronghold remained abandoned. He leaned against the railing.

Just a few minutes later, _approximately 15 minutes later_, the door behind him opened.

He stilled. He felt the familiar tension slide across his back in a slow, deliberate motion. He heard the footsteps approaching him. Felt the floor vibrate slightly with each step. A figure slid into place beside him.

A hint of blue, black and white.

He exhaled. Shut his eyes. When he opened them, the figure was still next to him.

"Chief."

_Fuck._

That voice. In that tone. Saying that word.

Bullshit.

Something bubbled up in his throat. He swallowed deeply, the taste of cigarette on his tongue. Something choked his throat. It actually felt like there physically was something there this time. And there was that urge again; the one that had been forcing him to do something. He wanted to… What the hell did he want to do? What was he supposed to do in situations like this? The mess in him seemed to amplify with this irrational need to _do something_. The rest of his system protested the way he was reacting. He gripped the railing in front of him tightly. Licked his lips before speaking.

"Yeah?" His own voice came out rough. And devoid of emotion.

"Why the hell did you change your routine? I searched the whole fuckin' ship for you," was the accusatory reply, complete with a grating tone.

He turned to face his visitor. He was greeted with a playful smirk slowly spreading across a tired face. A red slit over his cheekbone crossing over a pale scar. A tiny cut over his nose. A cut on his lower lip. All red and angry.

That urge jabbed at him again. And he didn't know what to do –No. He had a fair idea what he wanted to do right now. He wanted to push. Shove. Grab and slam him against the railing. Pin him down and… stare at him. Scream at him. Didn't know what the point of it was. Would it even quell the urge? His system had too much shit to sort out right now.

"What? Forgot what a Tunnel Snake looks like?" There was a chuckle and the gaze intensified. Of course not. He wasn't programmed to forget. Couldn't do it if he tried. And he had tried.

"You…" he croaked. Voice still hoarse. It was like he couldn't even get the words past his lips. Ridiculous. "You look like hell."

"And you're still an asshole." The smirk softened. It stirred something sharp in his chest. For a moment it was 6 or 7 months ago and they were just sitting on the bridge. Things had changed; it wasn't very different, but it wasn't the same either.

"When are you leaving?" he asked because he didn't want to get used to this only to – he didn't want to get used to this. He watched the smirk fall. Watched the eyes flit up to the sky. Watched the already popped up collar get pulled closer around a neck.

"Later. Tomorrow. I don't know." Something darkened in the blue gaze when it fell on him once again. "I'm gonna take you with me."


	24. Chapter 24

_Hey there, all. Sorry that this chapter's a little late. I'm sorry for the late replies as well. Hell of a week phew~  
__**Woot69**__, thank you for having faith in me. I will try my very best to write some Butch/Harkness sex scenes (oh my!) Thank you for your suggestions. And I definitely have some plotlines for one or two more Butch/Harkness fics which will have some elements that you will be *interested* in (ahem…) Huh. This actually means that I'm gonna push back some slashyFalloutNV that I have in mind. But I'm sure I'll manage :D Thank you very much for your encouragement. I truly appreciate it._

_And once again, the amazing __**lilibombe**__ has blown my mind with another masterpiece. It's gorgeous.  
Go check it out and tell her she's awesome: lilibombe(.)deviantart(.)com/art/Fallout-3-Harkness-A3-21-194041545_

_Thank you everyone for reading. Now, on to the chapter. Hope you enjoy it._

* * *

**Trouble  
Chapter 24**

"I ain't leaving without you."

"Right."

"Seriously, Chief."

"Right."

Harkness entered the Rivet City Clinic, his ghost just behind him. They were here because if they weren't, the reckless idiot would end up bleeding again, like yesterday when he returned to being a barber. He sheared clumps of Trinnie's dark hair while Harkness watched Flak and Shrapnel play a game of pool. It actually had been a proper game until Flak whispered something to Shrapnel which made the ex-raider shut up and freeze. Then the game barely progressed with their half-assed aiming. From the corner of his eye he could see the blue and black snipping hair like nothing had changed. Methodical. Almost quiet. Bonny spoke to him but the conversation was too soft to listen in on. It only meant that the barber was still exhausted. When he left, the barber left with him. He had no idea whether it was him who had been waiting, whether it was him who was following the other. And as soon as they reached the room, the barber gave him a tired smile, flopped onto the cot and fell asleep. The sight couldn't move Harkness from his spot by the doorway. It seemed unlikely that cutting hair could pull at stitches but when the jacket was unzipped, there had been spots of blood on the bandages.

"Come on, 3 days ain't shit. I can last longer with nothin'." The good doctor nodded and listened attentively, eyes bright and alert. It was hard to tell if Preston was buying the explanations. Undoubtedly, this tale must be true. It was too insane to be anything else.

"You _did_ last with nothing," Preston said evenly. "You went with minimum nutrition and you said you didn't make any stops for 3 days. Longer than that and you'd probably die." Who the hell taught him to survive like this? _Johnny Saint._ That wasn't hard to figure out. This penchant for recklessness was probably something that all Vault kids learned. How the hell were Vaults considered safe havens?

"Yeah, yeah. But I was out of ammo, right?" That explained the empty 10 mm but not the restless days.

"So, you decided to run all the way to Rivet City."

"Told you. No bullets." Preston gave him a disapproving look. The very patient, good doctor peeled back the bandage to reveal the lead pipe wound. He pressed two fingers on the darker end of the wound, making the barber wince. "And uh…Tunnel Snakes… slither y'know – whatever I don't run." This was said in a soft, stuttering way while Preston rubbed the cut with some chemical. "Got them with my bat," came out as a hiss, lower lip caught between teeth. It was difficult to picture the sneaky bastard fighting with a bat instead of cutting with a blade.

Harkness felt for the pouch in his pocket, its leather brushing the back of his fingers.

He watched the way skin stretched the cuts whenever that mouth opened to spew more bullshit. Watched the way the pale pink, half-healed cut across the stomach shimmered with the chemical Preston rubbed into it.

He glanced down the long corridor behind him. Lana waved at him from the Weatherly hotel lobby. He had heard her footsteps walking towards him. When he faced the clinic again, he saw Preston pasting the bandage in place. He also saw the way a blue gaze ran up his body to rest on his face. Assessing. Observing intently. He shifted where he stood watching from the doorway. A hint of a smirk quirked a corner of the lips now released from sharp teeth. He shifted again, the tension in his shoulders attempting to dissipate but not quite succeeding.

"Hark," Lana greeted from beside him. She twirled a few strands of blonde hair around her index finger; the action mimicking Vera, but without the coyness and with more distaste. "You think he's well enough to work? I want to cut a little off." Why the hell was she –

"Ask him, then."

"Well, seeing as you're his keeper…" her voice trailed off into a snort as she elbowed him in the ribs. Roughly.

"I'm not his keeper." She beamed up at him like he had said something amusing. He hadn't.

It was another 7minutes 54 seconds before Preston dismissed them. Lana dragged them to the Weatherly hotel lobby. Immediately, Vera agreed that maybe Lana needed her hair trimmed because it would suit her better. They pulled up a chair and a pair of scissors was whipped out. Then Harkness was pushed onto the sofa with a bottle of water. He settled down to listen to Vera and Lana and Seagrave gossiping while watching long blonde hair getting chopped into a smaller bob. Long fingers carded through the locks. Skilful. Efficient.

"What kind of mission did you say you need our security chief for?" Lana asked. It wasn't surprising that she knew. He had been told that he'd been given 'permission' to leave. Apparently, Lana was _his_ keeper.

He wasn't even going to be surprised if the whole ship knew. In such an enclosed space it was expected that conversations echoed within the ship's walls.

"Some do-gooder crap. We're tryin' to save a town…"

"What's wrong with it?"

"It's a shithole." A hint of a smirk. "Full of asshats." There was a flash of a grin at him. Charming. Snake-like and sneaky. Like they were sharing some secret. He had no idea what the secret was supposed to be.

They had had this conversation the previous night. It yielded similar answers. And he was still not leaving the ship to walk across the Wasteland to do things. He wasn't even going to believe that _Saint_ needed _him_ to take care of a shithole full of asshats. That sounded unlikely. Because he had been told that Saint was 'a force of nature' and 'an army all on his own'. Saint didn't need some security chief from Rivet City. But the barber wasn't telling him anything else. And he wasn't really asking. There were more questions than answers in his system, centred on Saint's messenger and his smirks. He had spent a little more than 24 hours with said messenger but he hadn't asked any of the right questions yet. He wasn't entirely sure if he wanted to know the answers.

"Chief." He turned to the barber at the sound of his voice. Barber's hands were steadily combing through Lana's hair; he wasn't even looking this way. The smirk was there; the edgy, playful one. Then there was a flick of his gaze. "Want a shave?"

And just like that his system reduced his focus to memory. Dragged up visuals. Ran its course behind his eyes. He couldn't stop it if he tried. He could feel his grip around the neck of the bottle tighten on its own. He could feel the ghost of a touch on his face, of heat wrapping his chin, jaw, cheeks, sliding, settling over his face, under his skin even though there was nothing there. Of course there was nothing there.

"Harkness."

Sister stepped into the lobby, wrenching him back to _now_ through the haze of intangible warmth. Sister's posture seemed to convey urgency and he cocked his head, indicating that he wanted to talk privately. Outside. Harkness spared a glance at the barber. The smirk was gone; heat in the gaze gone. He was looking suspiciously out the door, hands still working on Lana's hair.

It was colder outside and he wondered why he had noticed it. It was dimmer too. Emptier. Sister's ladder leaned against the opposite wall.

"Is there a problem?" he greeted Sister. The ex-slaver stared at him levelly, hands in his pockets. The stare was unwavering; it didn't trail anywhere else. Riveting.

"I heard ya are gettin' outta here," Sister said. Without a pause, he pulled out a holotape from his left pocket. Handed it to Harkness. Across its length was a strip of pasted yellowed paper. On it were the words: _Return to synth._

Bullshit.

He stared up at Sister who stared back at him. The stare didn't hold any hatred. Or disgust. It was almost friendly. Almost. He noted that Sister was also unarmed. The usual combat knife wasn't there on his belt. Surely, he would – No. Sister wouldn't send him to slaver country. Mainly because there was no more slaver country. But when Sister swore he wasn't searching for an android, Harkness had believed him.

"Where did you get this?"

"Father Clifford. But he don't know…'bout ya." The stare still didn't waver. Eyes didn't blink. Sister must've made a very successful slaver in the past with just that stare.

"But you do."

"Th' Vault scum said he'll kill me if I collar ya." Bullshit. The bastard of a barber had spilled his secret. "I ain't afraid of 'im but…" Sister was peering into his face. "It made me re-alise what ya are." He didn't miss what that meant. Sister had known for some time. But didn't choose to confront him. He didn't even look intimidated in any way as he stood in front of Harkness. Unbothered. Unaffected. Sister might have known since before the barber even left.

"Thank you," he finally said. For the holotape. For not exposing him. Sister patted him on the shoulder, firmly, and then picked up his ladder which had been leaning against the wall before walking down the corridor.

Harkness listened to the receding thuds of heavy footfalls as he turned the holotape over in his hand. He tugged out a cigarette and bit it down between his teeth. He thrust the holotape into his pocket, the same one with the pouch. Pulling out a box of matches, he hesitated. He could hear Lana's footsteps heading towards the entrance of the lobby. He put the matches away.

"I think you should go with Butch," she said, nudging him with her left foot. He felt something sharp through his chest but he dismissed it. He had no idea the ship hated him. They were all trying to make him leave.

"You found a replacement for me, already, Lana?"

"Nobody wants to be Security Chief, Hark." She snorted. "You need reasons to leave? I'll give you reasons. You haven't taken a day off since you've started working. You don't sleep. You don't eat." He ate more frequently now. He hadn't slept for only 6 months 8 days now. But Lana had no proof; she was just guessing. "You're overworked. You need a break. Take a day off, a week, a month. A year if you want. I promise the ship will still be standing when you get back." She was smiling up at him. This particular smile meant that she was worried and she cared and that he'd better listen to her. "You protected the ship from the worst of the Wastes: muties, raiders, slavers, Enclaves but they couldn't beat a shave, could they?" What the hell? He looked at her in her new haircut. She was searching his face. "You… flinched when he asked. You never flinch, Hark."

Right. There was this tension trying to spread across him again. He tried to ignore it.

"So, you're saying that because I… flinched, I should leave?"

"I'm saying you're not a machine, Hark." He stilled. "Take time off."

He lit the cigarette between his lips. Flicked the match away.

When the barber slotted in beside him, the smoke blurred his sharp edges. When the whistling started, he shut his eyes.


	25. Chapter 25

_**Update:**__ Edited. And the amazing __**lilibombe**__ is beyond amazing. LOOK AT THIS: __lilibombe(.)deviantart(.)com/art/I-was-not-designed-for-this-195445907__  
Also, __**LillyWhiteRosePetals**__ asked a great question about Butch's toothpick. Thank you for it :D. This is why I love it when I get feedback - They always point out things that I might have forgotten in the story. Cause well, I'm not a machine like Harkness so I do forget main plot points sometimes. And usually, even the simplest of questions or comments do remind me and I'll be like 'Rusty you dumbass, you totally forgot to mention that Butchie did this crap in chapter 6 because of some stupid Tunnel Snake reason which is like totally important to the story.' _

_**Bottomline: Yes. I really appreciate your reviews. They truly help ALOT. Thanks, guys. **_

_Hello again, my lovely readers, and my very awesome reviewers. You guys are amazing, you know that? __**Woot69**__, I'm glad you enjoyed 'The Breaking'. I think I'm going to have to re-read it again myself to take note of how I wrote those sexy scenes ahaha. And thank you very much for your kind words and encouragement. I really don't mind you 'shooting sunshine up my butt'. In fact, it feels kinda nice. _

_I hope you enjoy this chapter. If there's anything you want to tell me or ask me, don't hesitate to send me a message. Thank you very much for reading! _

* * *

**Trouble  
Chapter 25**

When he stepped into the marketplace that morning, Gary gave him a small bag of assorted foods, Seagrave gave him a sack to put everything in, Flak and Shrapnel gave him ammo and Preston gave him 10 more Stimpaks. Belle Bonny had forced him to take the 3 bottles of Nuka Cola as she squeezed his shoulders. Lana gave him a tight hug which would have been bone-crushing if he had bones. Vera pecked him on his cheeks, commenting that she liked how smooth his skin was when he shaved the scruff off. He had turned to see Tunnel Snake watching. There was a quirk to his lips that looked like amuse but wasn't, a flash of something that looked like disappointment. But the next moment, the smirk was back and a heavier than expected sack was handed to him as a silent demand to carry.

He had never had to say goodbye to a ship before. Leaving the Commonwealth hadn't been a goodbye; it was an escape. Back then, it was just two guns, some ammo and a system quieted by planted memories. It was slightly different now. He had a Tunnel Snake by his side and his system wasn't quiet. It was telling him the exact shade of the sky above, the exact time, the exact number of hours before they had to rest; before his companion had to rest. The Tunnel Snake wasn't exactly quiet either. He was whistling now, something unrecognisable. Not the Tunnel Snake anthem, nor the Vault anthem. Something entirely different. If he stared at the landscape in front of him or at the group of Mirelurks that were coming their way, the whistled tune sounded almost fitting. Like some sort of battle cry where a Tunnel Snake and an android were making their way across the Wastes to meet Saint. Wherever he was.

Harkness had only said goodbye one other time. It was when he watched the barber cross the bridge, the snake at the back of his jacket looking at him. Now, the snake's eyes were still on him, keeping him in sight, like the way he kept _it _in sight.

He still had no idea where they were going. Still had no idea why he hadn't asked.

The Tunnel Snake suddenly bumped against his elbow, hard enough that his left hand almost flew out of his pocket. The impact made him pause mid step because, _hell_, that was solid. Solid and strong. Human. _Real_.

Of course, it was real.

"Hey, man. I know you think you're badass. But you gotta quit stealin' my kills." Annoyed. The annoyance was targeted at him and probably the sky. 5 times already, the jacket had been pulled tight around his body but wasn't zipped up. There were sweat stains around the neck of the white shirt underneath. Drips of perspiration down a throat. Harkness glanced at the opaque white of the shirt where the bandage was underneath. No blood seeping through. "You gotta let me play with them a little." Fingers brushed the edge of the bloodied baseball bat.

"You know they're trying to kill you," Harkness pointed. He watched lips quirking up, just for a moment on the tip of a second, and then it was gone.

"They won't," came the reply.

The next time a group of 7 raiders came at them, Harkness picked off the 5 raiders who were shooting, and left the last two. One raider was swinging around a tire iron. The other was revving up a ripper. With a strong swing, the bat smashed against the side of a torso, the raider dropping the ripper and stumbling backwards, face frozen in pain. Familiar. Watching this fight was familiar. That wildness. That delight in beating others up. That strength. Agility. That demented dance of limbs and speed. Even after 6 months, the scene resonated within him, felt nostalgic, familiar, something that he could grasp and wouldn't change. Except, the scene was starkly different. He had never seen Butch –

_Butch._

He wound his fingers around the slim hardness within the leather pouch in his pocket as he watched the fight. His chest felt tight.

His wired side's figures whirred, the probability of the Tunnel Snake's survival increasing with every swing. _47.8%. 53.4%._ _56.0%. _He had switched on this program as soon as they left the ship. Not that it was necessary. But he wanted to make sure that threats weren't such big threats. Not to him. But to Butch –

Him.

The thing that was different about this scene was the weapon of choice. A bat instead of a switchblade. The moves were still distinctly _Butch_. The quick dodges. The fast jabs. The grace of a Tunnel Snake. He could see how the bat was moulded into this dance. A wooden extension where a metal blade would have ended. More force. More powerful. Destructive. The weapon seemed to make Butch lose a little of the finesse he had with a blade. And the observation struck something in him which he couldn't understand.

Thing was; Butch was actually a good shot. _86.6% accuracy_. Better than expected. He rarely missed his targets. Rarely wasted his bullets. So, it was odd that he lost all his ammo on the way to Rivet City. He must've encountered too many enemies. Or he just didn't bring enough ammo to last the journey. Which meant that he probably had to avoid being attacked. Meant that he probably had done this by sneaking around to avoid being detected. Which explained why he didn't make any stops in the last stretch of the journey in order to reach the safety of Rivet City sooner than later. Sooner was 2 am. And then he had collapsed. A solid weight grappling onto Harkness.

"Enjoying the show, tin man?" his companion slurred after wiping the end of the bat with his hand. The stupid, smug grin was there, still pasted on his face. He said 'tin man' like the way Vera said 'Harkness'. But that could be due to way blood was dribbling out his mouth. He had opened the cut on his lip again.

"At this rate, we'll reach Saint in the next few months," Harkness replied. Exaggeration, of course. He had no idea where they were going.

"Johnny can kiss my ass." For a split second, Harkness wondered if Butch and Saint weren't really as close as they seemed to be. Then his human side confirmed that the biting tone Butch had reserved for Saint was actually affectionate. The Tunnel Snake stopped in front of him, examining the stains of gunk on the end of his bat. The two raiders, obviously dead, lay in a haphazard arrangement on the ground. Digging in the bag, Harkness pulled out a bottle of water and two Stimpaks. A bemused smile replaced the amused one as Butch uncapped the bottle of water to raise to his lips. His lips didn't touch the rim of the bottle while he drank, the liquid pouring out like a little fountain straight into his mouth. Then, he tipped the bottle over his hands to wash them, to wash his baseball bat uselessly.

"You pulled your stitches."

"What?" Butch asked, his face scrunched up in disbelief. "Fuck, no," he challenged. Pointless to argue. Because at the rectangular space of opaque white peeking through his shirt was a darker coloured spot. The tip of a tongue ran over chapped lips. Leaning the bat against the rock Harkness was sitting on, Butch tugged the hem of his shirt. He lifted it up, exposing sweat-slicked glistening skin. There was a drop of red on the bandage. "Yeah, yeah. Tunnel Snakes rule," Butch muttered, as though the drop of blood was inconvenient. His hands had a faint tremor when the Stimpaks were picked up.

He considered offering to help with the Stimpaks but didn't do anything. He just wasn't sure he'd let go if he touched. Because there was this constant illogical _need_ to make sure Butch wouldn't disappear for the 208th time. Ridiculous.

A constricting ache wrapped around his chest and he took in a deep breath, feeling his own fingers tightening around the pouch in his pocket again. He watched the edge of the bandage peel away, revealing a dry triangle of skin. He watched the sharp point of the Stimpak slide easily into the flesh. Watched the transparent liquid get pushed out of the chamber into skin. Looking up, he saw that the eyes were staring back at him. The smirk wasn't there. No decipherable emotion in the blue gaze. Warm breaths ghosted over his cheeks. Close enough that he could see the faint freckles. Could see a tiny drop of sweat travel slide down the left temple. Could see the dark shape of the cut across his lip.

"Where are we going?" he asked. Butch blinked. He slumped down on the rock next to him with a sigh. Solid weight leaned on him.

"Told you. To Johnny. He wants you."

"Where is he?"

"The fucker sprained his ankle and got knocked out." He turned to see Butch's signature smirk spread across his face. That was… the sight of it made his system ache. "Not at the same time. I mean, if you know Johnny – the fuckin' dumbass – He's gonna travel even with a sprained ankle." There was dark chuckle. "So, y'know, when we're about to leave, I knocked him out." Some expression must've shown on his face because Butch's smirk widened. "Don't worry. He's used to it."

He watched Butch pick up the bat and examined it closely. Then, he realised that it was the one he had given to Butch some months before.

"Butch." His voice sounded too loud when he uttered his name aloud. His mouth wrapped around the name like it was re-familiarising itself with saying it. Even those blue eyes widened when they darted to him. Some emotion flickered in them. It was quiet for 48 seconds before he realised that he wanted to ask a question. "Where are we going?"

"Bigtown."


	26. Chapter 26

_Hello, once again, readers. Sorry that this is going very slowly, but I assure you that this is necessary. __**Woot69**__, we're all romanta-pervs at heart. Haha. I kinda wish I can see into your imagination; it sounds like an awesome place. I'd probably never leave. Thank you for your kind words and encouragement._

_If you haven't already, look at this Butch/Harkness awesomeness: lilibombe(.)deviantart(.)com/art/I-was-not-designed-for-this-195445907 Please give lots of love to __**lilibombe. **__She's amazing. Check out all the delicious detail in her other works: lilibombe(.)deviantart(.)com_

_Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoy this chapter. Feedback and comments are much appreciated._

* * *

**Trouble**  
**Chapter 26**

Finally, after hours of Harkness following Butch aimlessly wondering where the hell they were going, Butch finally told him. Just like that. Why the hell would he withhold information like that? What the hell was the point? Would answering 'Bigtown' the first time make him stop following? Would it trigger some disaster? Was it so difficult to give a straight answer?

Then again, Butch rarely gave straight answers.

"It's all dust over there. And Johnny thinks he can save the town."

"Save it from what?"

"Y'know. Shit." Insightful. "He wants you to help him with stuff." Very insightful. Butch wiped his face with the back of his hand and winced, didn't like what he saw on it. Might be dirt. Blood. Or more sweat. He cringed like he was disgusted with himself. It was only a matter of time before he would use up another bottle of purified water. When Butch was this uncomfortable, the smallest things set him off. He kicked a baby molerat that was squeaking a bit more high-pitched than normal. Then had this look of surprise on his face like he hadn't meant to kick it, and when he saw that it was still alive, he proceeded to call it names. He saw a smudge of dirt on the side of his jacket and he shouted insults to the sky, blaming it for lack of hygiene. The yelling attracted a group of nearby raiders who single-mindedly ran into battle only to be picked off. At some unpredictable sense of reason, Butch let the last three raiders wobble off. Butch preferred the fight to the kill, anyway. After he had unleashed whatever pent-up bloodlust he had, he usually just knocked enemies out with his Tunnel Snake dance. He won every fight so far, seeming to catch on his opponents' flaws easily. But his own moves weren't completely flawless. Once, he slipped on the dirt and fell flat on his ass, the bat rolling away. When the raider was about to land a hit, the Tunnel Snake _cheated_. He threw sand in the raider's face and kicked his groin. He looked proud of himself too.

Harkness' system gladly filed all these 'new' data under _Post-Ghost Butch_.

It was ridiculous. Even after continuously gathering the data of one violently reckless, fiercely imperfect Tunnel Snake, his system couldn't update itself. It had tentative separate folders for Butch – _Pre-Ghost Butch_ to _Ghost-Butch_ to _Post-Ghost Butch_. Just tentatively. There weren't exactly folders and every bit of info was lost within the mess that was his system nowadays. It couldn't even equate Butch to Butch to Butch. It didn't make sense that it was his wired side that wasn't making sense. His human side seemed to agree with his wired side. Illogical. Impractical. Ridiculous. He had been forcing his system to acknowledge that this was indeed, Butch, just Butch, undoubtedly, undeniably Butch, but his system couldn't take it. His wired side refused to believe it; His human side needed constant confirmation. They both predicted that _this_ Butch was going to disappear soon. _For the 208th time._ For 6 months 29 days 23 hours 5 minutes 37 seconds, he had been chasing ghosts and now he couldn't fall out of routine easily. It was slowly driving him rogue. If that wasn't already so difficult, there was this turmoil of emotions he couldn't classify. What was he supposed to do with it? He couldn't deal with this. He wasn't_ programmed_ to deal with this.

Only snippets of sensation pushed him to trust now. Touch. Smell. Sound. When his eyes sought out Butch's presence on the edge of his vision and held. When he was bumped into. Shoved. Brushed against. When he caught a hint of musk and sweat. They caused a flare of heat which spread through his chest, warm enough that his system slowed just to process how it _felt_. These were the moments when he could believe that _hell_, _it was Butch and he wasn't disappearing any time soon_. In those moments, the strange urge to do something would appear and instead of shoving or pushing or pulling or grabbing back, he would take out a cigarette and light it. Inhaled and exhaled and watched the smoke obscure his vision. Just so the sensation wouldn't overwhelm him so much. That was all he knew how to do, how to control. He was down to 4 sticks in his first packet. It used to be a packet of 20.

They had stopped twice so far in 3 days, _12 hours 23 minutes 8 seconds_. It was a quiet agreement that Butch would sleep and Harkness would keep watch. He ended up watching Butch more than looking out for any possible dangers. The first time they stopped, Butch slept for 5 hours 4 minutes 58 seconds. The second time, he slept for 3 hours 34 minutes 15 seconds before he awoke with a start. He only calmed when he saw Harkness. Smiled an almost serene smile. Like he was happy to see him. Then sat beside him on the doorstep of the abandoned camper. Butch fell asleep on his shoulder for another 27 minutes. The solid weight on him. The way he smelled. He was warm. Alive. And breathing.

The sound of his breaths changed when he awoke. He sniffed himself and remarked that he stank like the Wastes. He picked up the opened bottle of water and poured it over his hands to wash them. Poured it over his face. Plunged his fingers into his dark hair and messed up the Tunnel Snake cut only to rework it. There had been a nearby lake. Why didn't he just take a swim? Butch replied that he didn't want to be irradiated. And not because he didn't know how to swim.

Real. All real.

Harkness inhaled. Exhaled.

At least half of each bottled water was used to clean Butch's hands, face, bat or jacket. Harkness had stopped drinking just so Butch could do whatever he wanted with the water. He was an android; he was less likely to be dehydrated. He pulled his eyes away from Butch to rest on the bat lying next to him in the dirt. He picked it up and trailed his fingers over the weapon, tracing the grain of the wood, dusting off any dirt. He found the snake by touch; the paint was smooth against the rough wood where the layer of varnish had been stripped off. A snake had been drawn into the wood. Black lines on brown stained red. Very detailed. Very fine. From a very steady hand.

Startlingly similar to the snake behind the leather jacket.

"You made your own jacket," he stated. He wondered why the thought had never crossed his mind. When he looked up, Butch was staring at him. Intensely. Like he had said something amazing.

"Maybe." There was a flash of emotion on Butch's face before he settled for a smirk. Challenging. And slightly awkward. Like he didn't know how to react. "Got a problem with it?" So, he _did_ make the jacket.

"It's…" interesting, nice, special "…Badass." He watched the way Butch stiffened. Chin slightly raised. Like the way he was when defensive. Then the smirk became sincere. Resembled a smile. A flicker of emotion in his eyes. He took the bat from his hands.

"Y'know," Butch started. "I used to play little league. Was a batter." He slid the palm of his hand along the bat, digging his fingers into that black snake in the wood. "Got kicked out the team cause I was hitting more than balls – well not all the time. Suckers." He snorted. "I mean, I can pretty much do anythin'." Then the smirk was back, playful and serious at the same time as he stared intently from behind the stray serpentine curl of his hair. "I bat." Let his tongue run over his lower lip. "I can pitch. I can catch. What's your pleasure?" Butch was looking at him expectantly.

"What the hell's little league?" he asked.

In front of him, the eyes widened. Butch snorted. Then chuckled. Then laughed. A low, deep, rumble from his throat that made him sound like he was choking. It continued for 26 seconds before the smirk-smile was back, the corners of it tipped up in amuse. His gaze was soft. Less pointed. Less piercing. He tapped the bat against his left ankle, indicating that they should move.

"Come on, machine man. Let's get outta here."

The sky was a shade of sunrise, _R193 G186 B158_, when they reached the outskirts of a town, Bigtown, according to his companion. And Butch was right; the place was full of dust which got disturbed as they trekked through the path. There were approximately thirty houses, judging from the broken rooftops. There were many footprints in the sand. Among those were much larger boot prints. Muties' steps. There were drops of blood along the tracks. Blood trails. Bloody footprints. Stale brown, not fresh red. A few empty shells. A broken assault rifle, beyond repair. Some twisted scrap metal. It was evident that battles had happened here. Through broken windows at the edge of the town, he saw into a kitchen; half eaten meals on a broken table. They were barely past the fourth house. And already, they were so many differences to Rivet City.

It was quiet, really. It wasn't apparent that there could be a town hidden within these ruins. But he had seen the map on the pip-boy to know that they were in the right place. Butch was whistling something that sounded inappropriately up tempo ahead of him as they walked through the carcass of a town. Another new tune he couldn't whistle. The debris of battle continued all the way to the center of the town.

"Watch your step. These kids are psychos," Butch said as he slowed his steps, sifting through the sand with the toes of his boots. "Damn fuckers always leavin' shit lyin' around." Harkness scanned the ground for something that could resemble the 'shit' Butch was talking about. All he saw was more dust. And more shrapnel. And more empty shells. There was a dirty teddy bear sitting by the side of the road. Next to it was a sign which read 'Welcome to Bigtown. We're ripe for picking.' Optimistic. How fucked up was this town?

He finally caught sight of a weak light up ahead. It was the light from a lantern, flickering at the end of a short rickety bridge suspended over a ditch. The bridge was hidden behind huge mounds of automobile parts and sandbags. At the other end of the bridge, was a clearing. Bigtown, he assumed. It appeared empty. Quiet. Probably the inhabitants were still asleep. Just like their guard who was sitting on a foldable chair, his head lolling forward. His helmet covered his face but from the way his shoulders rose and fell, it was easy to tell that he was sleeping. Deeply, too. There were sounds of snoring. His hands, though, were wound tightly around an assault rifle but it didn't look like he was going to use it anytime soon.

Butch didn't cross the bridge into Bigtown. Instead, he turned to the house standing just opposite the road, checking to see that Harkness was following. He simply pushed the door open and it yielded. Harkness followed him into the house.

It smelled like smoke. And burning meat. There was a slight haziness of smoke within the house. But it was quite airy. Some the windows were open, or rather, the window panes were broken off, letting streams of smoke escape through the holes. The house was dim. Soft bluish light lit up patches of darkness. The interior was an odd fusion of rusted sheet metal and sleek bluish metal. Fake vents in the wall. Huge computers. It looked like a Vault. _And a little like the Commonwealth_. Three mattresses were pushed together in the left corner of the room. There was a ladder leading to some sort of hatch in the ceiling on the right. A table stood in the middle of the room. On it was a map of the Wastes, spread open. He noticed that several bottle caps were strewn over the map. There was a combat knife on the table. A lawnmower blade. A basket of 6 mutfruts. Two boxes of Fancy Lads Snack Cakes. Three bottles of purified water. And an opened box of Sugar Bombs.

"Butchie? That you?" a raspy voice called out from one of the rooms further in the house. Butch replied by whistling the Tunnel Snake anthem. He gestured that Harkness should drop the sack and follow him. Butch rounded into an open doorway. It was then that Harkness noticed that there were no doors in the house. Every doorway was gaping open, hinges left behind along the edge. What the hell happened to the doors? "I kinda forgot you were gone, Butchie. Then again, it had been kinda quiet..." the raspy voice called out again, punctuated by a cough.

"Liar. It ain't quiet. You got Sticky," Butch replied. Harkness turned into the doorway and was greeted by a very bright room. Like the entrance, the windows were open and broken, letting light spill into the room. There was a long table where beakers and gadgets were placed onto. Something was indeed burning at the corner of the room; he couldn't tell what.

Johnny Saint was standing on the other side of the table, concentrating on an experiment, it seemed. He had on a pair of goggles that hid his eyes and he was stirring something powdery in a dish. The flame from the candle on the table was reflected in the plastic lens. Saint had obviously been working for long hours in that candlelight; the wick had burned down till it was an inch high. He wasn't wearing a shirt, just a pair of pants stained with different shades of dust and grime. Around Saint's neck was a chain; he had several tags hanging from that chain. He even had a rusty lighter on there, decorated with a skull and a 'J' scratched into the metal. His exposed skin though, was marked with many scars, old wounds, stitch marks, burn marks and so on. Some of those marks – the wounds that caused those marks would have been fatal. But Saint was still here standing. Still recklessly standing half-naked while playing with chemicals. Saint nodded to both his visitors, a small lopsided smile on his face.

"Gimme a sec," he said. With his un-gloved left hand, he pinched up some powdery substance and transferred it into a clear glass beaker. Then he flicked open the lighter, set fire to a torn scrap of paper and threw the flame into the beaker.

It happened so fast, but as soon as the flame touched the powder, there was a mini explosion in that beaker. The glass shattered and shook but did not break. Greenish, turquoise flames rose from the powder in a split second then continued burning into greenish white flames. He had never seen fire take on that colour before. Nothing in the Wastes resembled that R46 G144 B88. Saint was watching the flames, mesmerised. It almost seemed like a solemn ritual of some sort, a little like Father Clifford's prayer sessions in Rivet City. Saint pulled off his goggles.

"Welcome to Bigtown," he said as he placed the goggles onto the table. He ruffled his hair and his fringe flopped over his forehead, the rest of the hair sticking out at odd angles. He grinned, an easy smile that was all teeth and no lip. "Good thing you're here, Chief Hark. The town's waiting to go to hell."


	27. Chapter 27

_Hello, everyone. Looooooooooong chapter up ahead._

_**Woot69**__, thank you for your mail! Glad you liked those parts in the previous chapter I am also thrilled you enjoy Reaver/M!Sparrow. And this: 'Your gentle guidance through the plot is like a well loved soft fuzzy blanket for my eyes' just sounds AWESOME._

_Thank you for reading, everyone. Hope you enjoy this chapter. (Had a pretty horrible week and I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint. Urk.)_

* * *

**Trouble  
Chapter 27**

It had been some time since he had been threatened. Well, that wasn't true. He got threatened everyday whenever Seagrave was in the same room as Vera and him. This time, it was by 2 men armed with pistols aimed at his chest, or rather, s_omewhere_ at his chest. The blonde one stepped forward and peered into his face. His gaze was piercing, like he was entertaining violent thoughts in his head, like he was shredding Harkness to pieces in his mind. He hadn't blinked for 1 minute 28 seconds. His hair was combed precisely to his back and sides like an imitation of Butch's hair but without the long strand of snake dangling in front of his face. The other person had narrowed his eyes till they were dark slits. His hair was matted on his forehead.

"I bet you're here to rape and pillage us. Aren't you?" the matty one barked. The blonde one dug the barrel of his 9mm into his chest; it was going to leave an imprint in the skin because he wasn't wearing armour. Saint had told him to take it off so as to appear less intimidating. Same reason why he was unarmed as well. Apparently, without his armour or his weapon, he looked approachable enough to get a gun pressed to his chest. If he wasn't supposed to disarm them or incapacitate them, what the hell was he supposed to do?

Where the hell was Saint anyway?

"Don't get any bright ideas about trying anything. We may not look it, but every one of us is a trained killer," the blonde one added. Right. The blonde one would only cause damage if he pulled the trigger because the gun was poking his chest. The matty one would probably hit him in his limbs should he shoot. Nothing he couldn't dodge. Before he could even part his lips to reply, the men retreated. Their faces were still frozen in that intimidating expression but they seemed to back away. The one with the blonde hair glared into his face and spat "Not that it matters." He pulled his gun away. "Just _please_ don't kill anyone while you're here."

That was the first time he encountered pleading that sounded like a death threat.

He actually didn't know what he should do right now.

The two pairs of eyes in front of him darted over to his right. And when he turned, he turned to face one of Saint's grins. He didn't even hear the man sidle up to him.

"Morning," Saint rasped with one of his wide, reckless grins. He didn't seem too bothered that this town was being less than hospitable just 3 minutes 12 seconds ago. He placed a hand on Harkness' shoulder and grinned wider at him before announcing "This is the guy who threw Butch off the ship."

"Woah. You're the Chief?" the unblinking blonde cried, pointing at him with the gun. Their stances relaxed and they holstered their weapons. They were… impressed it seemed. As though throwing Butch off the ship had been something of a feat – actually, it was. Butch wouldn't be happy to hear that. Which was a good thing he was back in the house at the moment. Showering. In a bathroom that didn't have a door. His system helpfully played the image of water running down a naked back as he walked past the pile of dirty clothes and unlaced boots by the doorway. The jacket was hung carefully over a dining chair.

"Welcome to Bigtown. Not that there's much of a town left," the blonde one said. He still hadn't blinked. And without even saying anything, Harkness was led into the town hall. He wondered what it was Saint had told them about him.

Proper introductions were made during the communal breakfast. He put names to faces while chewing on a mutfruit, its sweet radiation coating his tongue. The matty one was Pappy and the blonde who never blinked was Flash. The sleeping guard, Dusty, was sitting next to him, eating noisily like a man starved for days. When he entered the town hall, Dusty had attempted to pull a gun on him; he fumbled with the empty holster around his thigh, scrambled with the nothing against his back and finally decided that intimidation would be a hassle and said 'Just don't cause any trouble okay?' tiredly before flopping into a chair and reaching for a bowl of stew. He seemed overworked.

Kimba reminded him of Lana, only a more paranoid version. She skimmed her bright eyes over him like she was assessing him, her hand still gripping the handle of a combat knife even after Flash told her 'He's the Chief, Kimmy. Relax.' She relaxed after 9 minutes 42 seconds, triggered by full assessment, he assumed. She apologised, offered him a soft, warm smile and handed him a mutfruit. She was different from Shorty who brushed him off after asking him who he was. And very different from Bittercup who was definitely the friendliest without being friendly. She wedged herself in the small space between Dusty and him and smiled down at him. Apparently, she liked what she saw because she cupped his cheek as she hovered over him. Her touch was inhumanly cold and it was that coldness that stunned him into non-action. Scrutinising him, she said 'Another soul to add to my circle of darkness' cheerfully. He told her that he didn't have a soul. And she beamed at him.

"Stop harassing Chief, will you?" Pappy muttered from across the table.

"Paps, get over us. I told you I don't date liars," Bittercup replied without turning around and without the smile slipping from her face. Pappy then said something rude under his breath which made Bittercup spin around to bang her fist on the table. Dusty faced him, wide-eyed and alert, and indicated that they should leave immediately. Saint's hand fell on his shoulder again and he followed them outside without protest. Behind him, he could hear Bittercup uttering curses to Pappy before shutting the door.

Dusty resumed his duties as he headed for the bridge, sitting down on the chair again. He picked up his abandoned weapons on the chair like he had no idea he left them there. A man with shaggy hair and sleepy eyes exited another house that Saint told him was the Bigtown clinic. He seemed dazed. Or drugged. He warned them sluggishly against entering the clinic because 'Sticky's being childish.' And 'Red's patching him up'. There were dents in both his clavicles, where they should be solid. This man, Timebomb, shuffled noiselessly to sit beside Dusty. They started napping in sync.

22 minutes 3 seconds later, Harkness was watching Saint arrange miscellaneous items on the shelves for the shooting range. Empty bottles. Dolls. Toy cars. Scorched books. Non-descript blocks of wood. When Saint moved, the articles hanging from his chain tinkled against each other. The lighter was bulky on the chain. And the dog tags were polished and clean and unwritten on. He was smiling, closed-lipped now, like he derived pleasure from doing this. He probably did. Somehow, he had thought that Saint would blind everyone. With his Saintliness. He thought that everyone would swarm around him as soon as he stepped into rooms. But they didn't.

Saint slipped out two empty vodka bottles from the left pocket of his dirty green jumpsuit and arranged them among the items already on the shelves. Under the rolled up hem of the jumpsuit, he could see the bandaged sprained ankle. It was still swollen, the bulge was obvious. Would Saint ever confront Butch about knocking him out? Was Saint truly used to being pushed around by Butch?

"Don't you wanna know why you're here?" Saint asked him. "I need you here 'cause I'm no Overseer. I just know how to set things on fire," Saint explained to him and the smile turned to a grin. Harkness still had no idea what an 'overseer' was. Still had no idea what it was Saint wanted from him if it wasn't to set things on fire. Saint made a teddy bear on the lower shelf sit up properly, pulling it up by its ragged ears. "This town's a hellhole. And it's gonna get destroyed in battle."

"There's going to be a battle?"

"There's always gonna be a battle, someday. Even Rivet City's got its fair share of crap, right? It's one thing that won't change." Saint chuckled as he examined the shelves, flicking at a Hawaiian doll bobblehead, making it wobble back and forth. They both watched it bob for 18 seconds before Saint spoke again. "The town needs you, Chief." His eyes had darkened when he turned to Harkness. The gaze was searching his face but seeing past the skin. He could almost feel it penetrating the layers of skin and touching the metal underneath. "But you're not here because of that, are you?" Saint's voice trailed off. Then suddenly, the huge, reckless grin was back on his face. And Harkness could hear running footsteps behind him.

"What the fuck, Nosebleed?" Butch's voice pierced the silence. "What did you tell them?" Without waiting for a reply, Butch launched himself at Saint. The impact toppled over both Saint and the shelf and everything crashed to the ground. All the arranged items lay strewn about in the sand while Butch and Saint wrestled. He watched Butch's white shirt get dirtied. Watched his wet, neatly combed hair get messed up. Watched the amused smirk on his face. He watched Saint laughing happily even while getting punched. Yeah, Saint was definitely used to this. Would he have to get used to seeing them wrestling? Then again, Butch wouldn't be Butch if he wasn't beating stuff up. And, he was already quite used to seeing Butch fight. Instead of trying to pry them apart, Harkness watched them roll around in the sand until they lay side by side, breathless.

The rest of the day passed lazily. Red, the town doctor, patched both Butch and Saint up, cooing and nagging at them like they were two overgrown children. She deemed Harkness fit enough for Bigtown and gave him a Stimpak for no reason. He gave it to Butch. Who gave it to Saint. Who gave it back to Red. Who thanked him. He helped Saint put the shooting range shelves back up, arranging the items exactly the way it was before. If Saint noticed his excellent memory, he didn't mention it. He found out that Bigtowners had an average shooting accuracy of approximately 60.2%. The worst shot was Timebomb with 43.8% accuracy, which was probably why he was learning to be a medic. And the best was Dusty with 82.3% accuracy, which was probably why he was the head of security. Harkness was introduced to Sticky at the communal dinnertime. The kid talked quickly, words stumbling into one another. He spoke like someone who expected to be told to shut up soon. 'Hey, hey, Chief, did you know about the haunted station? No, no. I'll tell you. It's cool. Really. There's ghosts and everything. Shadows and um… lights. Yes. And aliens.' The gist of it: there was a haunted police station in the northwest and haunted ruins in the northeast. When Sticky asked if Harkness had seen ghosts, Harkness told him he had. He watched how Sticky turned paler as he changed subjects, steering the conversation to the issue of his supposed girlfriend, Red. During this exchange, Butch had planted himself next to Harkness; close enough to whisper gruffly approximately every 3 minutes, asking whether he wanted help shutting Sticky up.

It was 0117 hours when they finally climbed up the hatch in Saint's house. That was where he found the missing doors. The hatch used to open up to an attic but the attic had been blasted off into rubble by a missile, according to Saint, leaving a roofless floor. Saint had arranged the confiscated doors to form a small but sturdy balcony providing a great lookout point. From here, he could see over Bigtown across the road. Could see Dusty stretching in the dark. Could see Pappy and Flash discussing something in front of the clinic. He could see the huge expanse of sky stretched overhead. _R29 G44 B38_.

He stared across the Wastes and saw the alleged haunted police station in the northwest. It was dark. Quiet. He focused on the windows, seeking shadows. None. No aliens, either. Nothing. Just another abandoned building. It looked uninteresting.

And then it happened.

Not shadows. Or ghosts. But a flash of bright light. Bright, bluish light that lit up the upper two floors of the building simultaneously. The light continued flickering in three short bright bursts then faded. After a pause of approximately 5 minutes, it started up again. The sight was slightly disconcerting. And his fists had tightened around his rifle without his control as he watched the bright light cycle. Something unpleasant crawled up his back. It felt like there was something he wasn't getting. Something he hadn't considered. Or had forgotten somehow. Impossible. He wasn't programmed to forget.

"Johnny says it's some kinda rou-tine thing. Some security shit before the War," Butch said impatiently and Harkness turned from the building to look at him. "How come I didn't know you were married?" he blurted. "You told Red and Bittercup you were."

"They were planted memories. To hide my identity."

"So you ain't ever gonna tell me?"

"You already know what I am. I see no point in…" his voice trailed off because Butch frowned at him like he was offended. "It's not real."

"Look. I wanna know, okay." Butch pulled the jacket tight around his body. Roughly. "I wanna know everythin'." What did he want with them? They didn't belong to Harkness. It was unimportant. Irrelevant. Butch already knew the most important parts of him. And Butch was _annoyed_? What the hell…Butch didn't really have a right to be annoyed with him, did he? Because there were things that Harkness wanted to know but Butch hadn't thought to mention. More important things like where the hell had he been these past 6 months. What had he been doing? What the hell was so important that he couldn't visit to say he was still alive? Had he even thought of Harkness for a single moment while he was out doing his bullshit in the Wastes? Because he had thought of Butch constantly. And seen ghosts of him. He was like a fucking program that wouldn't shut down. Was it so difficult to…

Butch sighed then. A low, vulnerable sound that he hadn't gotten familiar to yet. It shuttered his thoughts and he turned to see the Tunnel Snake staring at him intently. Butch was shirtless under his jacket because he had dirtied the last of his shirts. And when he lifted his chin to glance at the sky, the moonlight curved around his collarbones peeking out from under the collar. He could see the new scrape on his cheekbone. Could see the reflection of sky in his eyes. And past his shoulders, he could see the _haunted ruins in the northeast_.

He knew what the ruins were. Of course, he did. The blackened buildings. The layer of soot. The partially burned sign of Paradise Falls tilted down. His chest clenched painfully at the sight. At the permanent image in his system. Of a Butch-shaped lump of ash stuck in those ruins. The ache returned. The turmoil in him stilled. He found himself clutching the pouch in his pocket tightly, so tight that it _hurt_.

This was Butch, wasn't it? Alive and breathing right in front of him. He hadn't disappeared yet. And he was real.

_Real._

Harkness tugged out a cigarette from his pack and lit it, throwing the spent match over the balcony. He inhaled and exhaled, pushing down this overwhelming feeling in his system.

"Okay," he croaked without meaning to. "Anything. Anything you want, Butch."


	28. Chapter 28

_**Hey all. Another long chapter up ahead. Lots of dialogue. Thank you very much for reading. **_

_**Woot96**__, thank you very much for your encouragement and kind words. They really push me. As you can tell, I am also a romance junkie w00t! And I love reading your observations about the story. It's great. Also, I'm very, very happy you're enjoying the story. Inject anything you want in the story, dear! And thank you so much for taking the time to leave me messages. I appreciate it. _

_To listen to Sticky's story: youtube(.)com/watch?v=rriF8jkrxH4_

_**Hope you enjoy this chapter, everyone! **_

* * *

**Trouble  
Chapter 28**

He followed the line of Butch's neck as he stared down at the ground. That line was taut. Tense. Butch was thinking. So engrossed in his thoughts, that he was flexing his fingers like he wanted to grip something. His lips were pursed and he was biting down on his lower lip at intervals. Nervous. And tense. And a little annoyed. Harkness' focus jumped from thin scar to thin scar, on the cheekbone to the brow to the one across his lips, jagged, delicate lines on his face. Then the blue gaze finally fell on him again. When Butch let his lower lip go, there was an indentation in the flesh where his canine had caught it and held on.

"Hey," Butch called in a low voice, like they were about to share secrets. He shifted a little closer even though their arms were already pressed together. He took in the offered warmth, feeling it spread under his skin. "What's she like?"

_She_. The 'ex-wife'.

Finally. After the third day giving Harkness unsettlingly aggressive thoughtful looks, Butch finally asked. He had no idea if he was actually relieved or annoyed that Butch was asking. He understood. Somewhat. Butch didn't like asking certain things. He preferred trying to find things out on his own. That was why he sneaked around. Why he stole things. Why he put his hands on everything he wanted to. Asking was simple, and unchallenging. Asking meant that he'd failed to find out on his own. Asking meant that he was _actually_ interested. So, Harkness understood, somehow. And it wasn't even much of an understanding, just some irrational reasoning. His wired side agreed that it was illogical. But his human side liked his irrational reasoning enough. And he felt something warm and soft settle in his stomach when he watched the anxiety Butch was going through. Butch seemed frustrated even, more than the times he wanted to fight. Probably because this time he couldn't fight the answers out. He could if he wanted to; Harkness would tell him anyway.

Why was Butch even worked up about this? It was pointless. Because the information was irrelevant. Not just to Butch, but to Harkness as well. Whoever the 'ex-wife' was, Harkness didn't know her. All he knew was what was inside the planted memory cache and it wasn't much and it was unrelated to anything in his life now. He only used the planted memories to hide his identity. And he didn't like telling Butch pieces of it. Because it made Butch close to upset. But if Butch asked, he was going to answer. Because he appreciated it. Because Butch rarely asked. Especially not like this.

"She's blonde. With brown eyes," he answered. "Gentle. Quiet."

"Huh." Butch made a low whistle. "So, she's pretty and nice."

"Probably."

"Do you…uh…do you like her?" Butch winced. "It's in your me-mories, right? If she's your ex-wife…you…" his voice trailed off. He watched the fingers flex again. Butch peered into his face. Searching. What else was he looking for? He'd seen everything. Then Butch smiled, before getting up. He disappeared down the hatch.

Harkness followed closely. Because despite the smile, Butch looked and moved like he was frustrated. The tense back, the fingers flexing, the almost stuttering steps all read frustration. He was already pulling off his pip-boy so that he could pull off his jacket. And if Harkness wasn't there to curb some trouble, someone was going to get their nose broken.

He was beginning to think that this was part of the reason he was here in Bigtown.

He was good at that, apparently. Curbing trouble. And that was according to Butch's usual victims, Pappy, Flash and Shorty - and sometimes Timebomb. He didn't know how he made it 'much better' for them. They constantly limped away suffering pains and complaining. How much worse could it have been? Kimba joined in the fight sometimes, but Butch never fought dirty with her; he actually gave her pointers. He had biasness with women, it seemed. The men, he trashed them and basically threw them around any way he could. Saint had told him that Butch was teaching Bigtown to fight. Right. It was more like a beat-down. Butch explained that that was how he learned to fight anyway. And that his victims had better 'suck it up and shut up'. Saint was a sadistic little fucker for promoting this. And Harkness probably was too, for letting this happen.

"If you hurt them too badly today, you can't beat them up tomorrow," Harkness reminded, grabbing a bottled water from the table as they stepped out the door. He decided to ignore his packet of cigarettes that was sitting on the table.

"Yeah, yeah," Butch replied, squaring his shoulders, braced for an attack.

Flash didn't even get a chance to finish his iguana bits sandwich before he was flailing back at Butch. Shorty jumped into the fight willingly. Pappy got dragged into it when Flash called him for help. Timebomb watched from the sidelines, listening to Bittercup explain to him that their bloodlust would be useful during the next full moon. Dusty eyed them with a bored expression. Sticky ran out of the clinic excitedly. The kid made his way next to Harkness and asked him if Butch would teach him anything today. Harkness shrugged, a gesture that all Bigtowners seemed to accept as an answer. When Sticky called out, everyone ignored him, too preoccupied with getting the next punch in. Harkness felt like he was back in Rivet City watching a fight in front of the Muddy Rudder. His mind replayed the memory for him. And what was in his system didn't look too different from what was happening in front of him.

"Why is this taking so long?" Sticky whined beside him. Harkness wanted to know too, noting how Butch was just dodging punches now, pissing Shorty off effectively. "I know. Let's make up a story to pass the time." The kid dusted his shirt off then puffed up his chest. He cleared his throat. "Once upon a time, there was this robot. His name was…um…Chiefing Chief. And he went… chiefing everyone. And one day a giant ant came up to him and started talking like he wasn't some dumb ant but a person of some kind. It said 'Prepare to Die'. And what did our hero do you wonder? He came up with the most cleverest of clever plans. And it worked! And everyone called him a genius. The end!"

"What the hell does chiefing mean?"

"It's like…chafing, you know. When you wear tight pants –"

"Sticky," Butch called out in the aftermath. Shorty was walking away with a smug grin on his face. Pappy and Timebomb were both busy trying to revive Flash. At least they weren't too injured this time. Probably saving some dignity for tomorrow. Butch wiped his hands on his pants. The smirk he directed at Sticky, though, was nasty. Sticky didn't seem to notice. "Wanna learn something new?"

"Oh wow! Cool!" Sticky ran to Butch, story forgotten.

"I'm gonna teach you how to dodge. Okay?" Sticky whooped. "You ready? Dodge." And Butch knocked him out.

Harkness noted that he wasn't even surprised when he saw Sticky fall down unconscious. Sticky definitely had to go through more dodging lessons. Timebomb uttered a very slow 'Oh.' Butch slithered to Harkness, then, fitting himself beside him, his left arm pressed to his own right arm. And when Butch faced him, he looked much more relaxed. The exercise had made him flushed. And smug, and he was perspiring. He blew the long strand of snake away from his face.

"That was unnecessary."

"Sure," Butch said. He peered at Harkness. Butch chuckled and knocked their knees together. "But you're smilin'." Right. He couldn't deny that. He handed the bottle of water to Butch who took great gulps from it. He saw his Adam's apple bobbing with each swallow. Saw the beads of sweat sliding down his skin. Saw his strong pulse jumping on his neck. Butch licked his lips.

They sat together for 57 minutes 35 seconds before the silence was disturbed. The loud sound of glass shattering from Saint's house made them jerk in their positions. Then Butch was running. And Harkness was right behind him. They banged Saint's door open. The smell of burning was stronger now. They rushed in. Turned into Saint's lab. Saint was watching himself light up in flames. Green flames. It was eating away his shirt, from the middle, spreading fast down to his hem. And Saint did _nothing_. He was just watching it mesmerised, the light casting green over his face. Butch yelled something that sounded like a string of vulgarities. Harkness reached for the bucket of water right beside the door. Saint raised his hand.

"Don't splash on my chems."

Butch hauled Saint out the door and slammed him against the wall. Harkness poured the bucket over him, dousing the fire. It wasn't such a big flame. But dangerous, nonetheless. And recklessly stupid. Immediately after the fire was put out, Butch snatched the bucket from Harkness' hands. With great strength, he smashed it on Saint's torso. Then his back. Then his head. Twice. The thwacks echoed within the empty bucket at each hit. Then he dropped the bucket, dug his fingers into Saint's arms and shook him. Violently. Hard enough to make Saint's teeth clack with each motion.

"I'm gonna kill you, you fuckin', fuckin' fuck –"

"Should've let me burn –"

Butch smacked Saint across the jaw. Shook him again for another 5 seconds before picking up the bucket and jamming it over his head. He stomped out the door, crashing it open behind him. Butch was tense all over again. And there was no one left to beat up. Harkness wanted to follow but he needed to make sure that Saint was alright. Because Butch didn't hold back on Saint. Never did.

Saint coughed, the sound echoing under the bucket. He was dripping water onto the floor and there was a hole in his shirt from the fire. This was probably why Saint never wore a shirt when working. He pushed the bucket off his head, revealing a huge, red bruise on the side of his jaw. It looked swollen. The bucket dropped and bounced on the floor. Saint looked down at his body as he ran his finger around the edge of the burned hole. Burned around the edges. His skin under that, was miraculously untouched by the flames. The shirt belonged to Butch. Harkness glanced at Butch.

"Touch him," Saint rasped. Harkness snapped his focus back to Saint.

"What?"

"That's how you calm him down." Saint coughed, twisting his lips into a grin. There were flecks of blood on his teeth. "Just touch him."

"He doesn't like people touching him." Harkness realised that he should be asking if Saint was alright. But Saint looked fine enough.

"You aren't people," Saint rasped, the grin widening. Walking normally as though he didn't just get beat up, Saint headed back into his lab, placing a kick onto the bucket along the way.

Harkness looked past the open front door, catching sight of Butch's back. He was standing on the doorstep, facing the world outside. Unmoving. Shoulders rising and falling meant that he was taking deep breaths. But not calming down anytime soon. Harkness stopped behind him, watching how he acknowledged his presence with a slight tilt of his head towards him. When had they started moving around each other like this?

"Johnny's an asshat. Hate the fucker," Butch hissed, voice strained. Butch was pissed off but he was saying that he had been worried. And he cared. And he was trying not to snap. The fierce protection he had. The violent concern. Harkness could see how important Saint was to Butch in every blow he struck. He took a step closer. Butch huffed, looking at him over his shoulder. "I ain't blonde. And gentle." He stared at Harkness levelly, as though challenging him to argue. "Or quiet. And I ain't got brown eyes." Right.

"They're R53 G148 B158." They both stilled. He hadn't meant to say that. "Blue," he clarified. Bright, sharp, intense blue. Butch smirked. The 'Hey, Chief' smirk.

"That how tin cans flirt?" The smirk widened. The sight of it made his chest ache.

"Probably." Butch chuckled at the answer. And he relaxed. A little.

5 hours 41 minutes 34 seconds later, Harkness watched Butch sleep on the balcony, jacket pulled tight around him, and curled around himself as he leaned against one of the doors. The Tunnel Snake was exhausted.

He'd been volatile for days. Every day since they reached Bigtown. Leaping from one emotion to the next without proper transitions. Too tense. Then too relaxed. Almost always on edge. Was it Saint that was causing this bullshit? Or the town? It might be everything. The mixture of everyone's unstable natures. Nothing was quite sane over here. Nothing was quite safe either.

What the hell was he doing here?

The haunted station flickered blue at him, going through its light cycles. The ruins of Paradise Falls remained indiscernible in the dark, just edges of a destroyed sign. He glanced at Butch hidden behind the low wall then back at the ruins. Butch sleeping. Real. Here. He wanted a cigarette right now but he'd left the packet on the table. Looking past Butch, his eyes fell on the ruins again.

It called to him. He wanted to go there for some irrational reason. He couldn't deny that. It _was_ irrational. He wanted to see the remains of slaver country. Because he had entertained too many thoughts of that place in 6 months. Of how it looked like. How it blew up. How everything had crashed. How things had come down burning. How Butch had gotten away from it all. Because, in his system, Butch didn't escape from the fire. Butch had been hurt. And had been burned to ash.

Harkness found himself stepping down the rungs of the ladder. Saint was sleeping, head buried under his folded hands on the cluttered table in the front room. Both Saint and Butch had made up that evening; Saint patched up Butch's shirt with a piece of foil. Harkness went outside. The dark sky stretched overhead, twinkling down at him. Dusty was awake but had his face turned to the gun in his lap. He was polishing it under the weak light of the bridge; the repetitive scraping sound was loud in the night. Harkness walked past the bridge and Dusty didn't notice. He circled around the side of Saint's house. Paradise Falls in the Northeast. Haunted station in the Northwest. He paced through the debris of past battles, kicking aside some sharp looking pieces of glass in the dust. He walked in the direction of the ruins. Several metres ahead, he slowed down.

_Beeping._

He could hear high-pitched beeping coming from approximately 5 meters ahead.

Mines. Two of them, judging from two off-sync beepings. Someone had planted them here. He took another step.

Suddenly, he was grabbed from behind. Strong grip on his upper arm wrenched him back. He turned to see Butch, wide-eyed. His lips were parted. He was panting. And he wasn't looking at Harkness but at the ground. Eyes searched wildly, darting glances back and forth over the dust. Butch's hand around his arm clamped so hard into his flesh that he could feel fingernails trying to break skin.

"Chief." Butch was slurring, sluggish from being just woken up. "Don't go near –" he stopped halfway through the sentence, tugging at Harkness again. His eyes flicked to Harkness now. Piercing. And pleading.

For a moment, it was Rivet City again. And Butch was forcing him not to go near Sister. It was that same intensity. _Don't go near the fucker._ _He's gonna kill you._ Same urgency in his tone, voice, pressure in his grip. Same pleading look in his eyes. Somewhere in his system, a part of _Pre-Ghost-Butch_ merged with a part of _Post-Ghost-Butch_.

"Mines. Yeah. I know," Harkness told him. Butch hesitated. He seemed confused at his answer. "They're up ahead. I can hear them." Did he think that Harkness would blindly try to walk through some mines? Why didn't anyone tell him about the mines anyway? Butch ran his eyes over Harkness. His face. His body. To his feet. Then back up. He wasn't letting up his grip. The tension that had left Butch in sleep was back. Full-fledged and raring. Harkness could see it in his sharp gaze.

Reaching out, he softly brushed the pads of his fingers up the back of Butch's arm that was holding him. It was barely a touch but he could feel the life there, could touch the tension in the muscle. The warmth there. There was an echoing ripple in his system. He trailed his thumb over the back of his hand and Butch sighed, the low, vulnerable sound that pinched his stomach. Butch rolled his shoulders. Lifted his chin. His grip finally relaxed after 16 seconds. Palms slipped down his skin, leaving crescent-shaped indentations in his flesh.

"Sure. You can hear the mines. Yeah." Butch gave a breathless chuckle. He ran fingers through his hair. "Sure." He nudged Harkness, silently asking him to head back to the house. As soon as they entered, Harkness let go of the pouch in his pocket and reached for the packet of cigarettes.


	29. Chapter 29

_Sorry for the delay all. This chapter was a little tricky to write. Hopefully, it comes out alright. And I hope that you enjoy it._

_**Woot69**__, I loooooove your injections. And your 'horny voice' is AWESOME. I appreciate your feedbacks. They always help. And I realise that your comments are true for me too. Especially, this line: 'I'm learning what actions I find romantic and why'. I agree with this wholeheartedly. Writing Butch and Harkness (and well, Reaver and Sparrow etc. Btw, your analysis on Reaver is spot-on.) has kinda 'taught' me what I find romantic. And it's really strange. Like… kisses are lovely. And so are bites. But at times, sharing a bottle of Nuka Cola seems more romantic. That might just be me, though. All the same, I thank you for pointing this out. It just never occurred to me. Thank you very much._

_**Thank you for reading, all. And thank you for your reviews. They are awesome. You are awesome.**_

* * *

**Trouble  
Chapter 29**

The crescent-shaped indentations were gone because 3 days 10 hours 16 minutes 39 seconds had passed.

He could still feel the ghost of the dents. He knew where each of them had been on his skin and could mark the exact locations easily. He could also feel how Butch felt on the tips of his fingers. It was as though he had never touched Butch before. And that was ridiculous. Everything in his system was whirring and on edge and he'd been smoking every hour. It was finally a habit.

After finishing his packet, he walked out of the town hall. And he came here. To sit with Saint in his lab. Because there was a fog in here. Saint had greeted him by handing him a pair of plastic goggles, shattered in the left lens and taped up with black tape. Saint waited for him to put it on before he resumed stirring some purplish liquid in a bowl. It smelled like mutfruit gone bad. And Saint seemed too happy about it. He had spilled some of the purple gunk on his stomach and the spots looked like they blended in with his skin. All marks and lines like a map of some unknown alien territory.

For a while, _23 minutes 17 seconds_, the sound of his stirring was the only thing alive in the room. The stirring stopped when Saint transferred some of the gunk into a beaker. And then he was stirring again, this time with a glass rod. Each time the rod hit the beaker there was a high-pitched tinkle.

"What are you doing?" Harkness finally asked because it was getting too much in his head. His system was attempting to speculate the possible combination of chemicals for some kind of useful concoction. It wasn't something he was programmed with. It was something his memory had picked up on when he was in Zimmer's possession. _Good fucking riddance._ All the chemicals. And experiments. The only difference was that he actually liked Saint.

"I don't know, Chiefy," Saint answered, still tinkling the purple substance. "What are you doing?"

"I have no idea," he answered truthfully. Saint let out a bark of laughter. He placed the beaker on the table and pulled out a packet of cigarettes from his pocket. He threw it at Harkness' area without even looking at him. Harkness caught it, of course. He tugged out one stick, _18 left in the box_, and Saint flicked open the lighter on his chain to light it up for him. Saint lit one up for himself as well. They stood by the broken window adding smoke to the room, watching Bigtown from the holes in the glass. Saint finished his stick first and lit up another one. He attempted to burn a letter into the wooden windowsill with the previous cigarette butt. And he succeeded in burning a hole, nothing resembling a letter at all.

"What's the snake doing?"

"Working on Flash's hair."

"Did he hit on you again?" Harkness turned to him. Saint puffed out a ring of smoke to the air, while somehow still keeping the grin on his face. "What'd he say?"

"Flash asked him if he could give him a shave. He told Flash he doesn't do shaves."

"He doesn't, you know. He actually hates doing it." Saint tapped his cigarette, the ash dropping to the windowsill. "But he asks you every day." And Harkness refused every day. "He likes you saying 'No'. Likes it more if you say 'Yes'. But 'No' is good too." Both of them, both Vault kids were fucked up. Though, the only reason Harkness refused was that he didn't want the overwhelming mess in his system to become more overwhelming. And that would happen if he said 'Yes'. That and Butch had once told him that he liked the scruff. Butch probably forgot that he had said such things.

Even though Harkness' whole system clenched when he stepped out of the town hall, away from Butch, he couldn't stay. Everything was too much. Everything burned. His system urged.

There was something Butch wasn't telling him. Probably many things. It was in the way he watched Harkness. Like he wanted to say something but wasn't saying it. Like he was saying everything but Harkness just wasn't getting it. The way he pressed his fingers on Harkness' arm only to immediately retract them. That had happened 5 times. And Butch had stopped doing that 1 day 16 hours 3 minutes 50 seconds ago. But the stares didn't stop. Butch still watched. Still stared like he was either trying to figure Harkness out or considering beating him up.

All this energy was uncontainable. It was like trying to keep aggressive, violent men calm and quiet on a ship. It was making him edgy and his system was trying to fight and pulling on threads of frustration from within that mess in him. He didn't realise that he had that many threads in the first place. Didn't realise that Butch was the cause of a lot of the mess. Didn't know what to do with that information.

And what was truly illogical was that he wanted to be near Butch. He didn't like being too far away that he couldn't see him. Didn't like not knowing where the hell he was. Didn't like not looking at him. Didn't want him to disappear. No.

It was too damn fucking much. He was going rogue.

Saint flicked his lighter open then shut it closed. The sound made him snap his focus to Saint. Saint flicked the lighter open again. They both stared at the flame.

"I stole this from a dead man," Saint confessed suddenly, rubbing his thumb over the scratched 'J' in the metal. "Such a bastard in life," he continued. He flicked the lighter closed and returned to the desk, picking up the bowl once again. "Bastard smoked 5 packs a day. And he was coughing blood. He died because of his lungs. But it wasn't because of cancer." Saint stirred the purplish liquid and scooped up some onto a dish. "The bastard was shot." He transferred the dish to his gloved left hand. "That shot was meant for me. Every shot is, usually."

Saint poked the contents with the glass rod. He didn't seem to like what he was seeing. He picked up the dish and threw the contents against the wall, purple sliding down next to a similar green stain.

"Thing is; I have a curse. I'll lay down my life for anyone and I'm still standing. Someone does the same for me, they'll be dead. But that's not the point." Saint brought up the lighter again, flicked it open, closed it in less than a second. The huge grin was back on his face as he continued speaking to the lighter. "This thing, this beautiful thing; I wish I could give this back. That's not gonna happen but it don't stop me wishing." He let the lighter go and it chinked against the rest of the articles on his chain. "I'm just wondering why you haven't given Butch his toothpick."

Bullshit.

Harkness clenched his fingers tighter around the pouch in his pocket. Saint's eyes tracked the movement as though he could see through fabric.

How did Saint even know? He must've caught Harkness – No. The thing never left him. And he was discreet. Probably not discreet enough to escape Saint's notice. But he made sure that the thing was safe. Hidden. _I'm just wondering why you haven't given Butch his toothpick._ Harkness still hadn't given an answer. Was there even one?

They stood watching each other for 5 minutes 42 seconds before Saint's grin widened and he nodded at Harkness. He reached for the dish again. Resumed working, like nothing had just happened. Like he wasn't waiting for Harkness' answer.

The front door banged open and footsteps made their way into the house. Saint barely lifted his eyes away from the dish when Butch entered the lab. There was red on Butch's shirt. But not his own blood. He seemed to be panting. Like he had just run. Or fought. Butch eyed him, then eyed Saint, then ran fingers through his hair. He parted his lips to speak but closed it again after saying nothing. He walked out of the room, heading to the kitchen.

"You guys gotta talk," Saint said to the contents of the dish, as a matter-of-factly, as though Harkness didn't still owe him an answer. Harkness nodded even though Saint couldn't see it.

He left the lab.

It was Butch's back that greeted him. Naked and tanned and strong. There were freckles over his shoulder blades. And a nasty looking scar in his lower back running along his spine. Butch had plugged the sink which was filled to the brim with water. And he was washing something, jostling water onto the floor with his scrubbing. Not his jacket because that was hanging over the edge of the table with his pip-boy. His shirt, then. He was washing his shirt.

He watched muscles in the arms and back working. He listened to the sound of water, the sound of scrubbing, and the way Butch wasn't really into it. He found himself clasping the pouch again as he walked to Butch, stopping just behind him. Butch didn't say anything but acknowledged him. From the cock of his head and the stiffening of his back; it meant that he knew Harkness was there. Blue eyes trailed him for less than a second.

"I ain't liking how everyone calls you Chief," Butch said, voice low, a smirk pushed onto his lips. Teasing. But past the smirk was annoyance. Mild annoyance. Butch was possibly mildly frustrated with Harkness, but not saying it. Again.

"Right. Call me something else." Butch chuckled in response. He watched Butch wring his soaked shirt. Twisting it with a strong grip. Droplets sliding down his bare arms. "Is there another problem?"

"…Sure," was breathed out. Harkness leaned his back against the sink and just looked at Butch. Waited. He watched the smirk fall. Watched Butch run wet fingers through his hair. Watched how he tensed. Watched him bite down on his lower lip.

Butch wrung the soaked shirt again, squeezing the water out. His eyes trailed over to Harkness when he pulled out the drain plug from the sink. They listened to water rushing down the drain.

And after the water was gone, it was quiet.

It was like everything had stilled. But that wasn't likely because he could still hear Saint tinkling and chinking in his lab.

He didn't know what Butch wanted right now. If Butch wanted to be calmed down. No. Because he was calm now. He was breathing evenly. But he seemed conflicted. There was this look in his eyes that Harkness had often seen aimed at him. Like he wanted to fight. Or wanted -

Touch. There were fingers on his skin. On the back of his palm. Following a path up his arm. Curling around his elbow. Tugging. Pulling. A firm grip. All burning heat. Arresting. Stealing his warmth. And his breath. And his system took it all in. Sucking in the way it felt. Categorised. Analysed. Memorised the feel of a rough hand. Imprinting itself on him. The way Butch stepped close, _two steps closer_. The way Butch peered at him. Intensely. Blue. Deep, dark blue. So _close_. So _warm_. _Alive. Here_. _Exhaling breaths over his jaw. His chin. His lips._

Then it was gone.

Everything was wrenched away from him. It felt so cold now, by comparison.

"You…" Butch started and stopped, stepping back. His voice was hoarse. He ran his fingers through his hair; they were shaking. "You flinch. Everytime."

Harkness swallowed. And his throat was dry. Butch reached for his jacket.

"What? Is it cause I ain't blonde?"

"That's irrelevant."

"Yeah?" Butch paused in the middle of putting on his jacket to give a nasty smirk. "Then why you gotta flinch?" He yanked the jacket around him. "You ain't got a problem with Bittercup. Or Vera. Or-"

"You're overwhelming." Butch shot him a look he couldn't read. "I have to get used to you." _Again._

"Ain't you used to me before?"

"Before, you weren't dead."


	30. Chapter 30

**Hey there, all. I'm…drained. This has been a very tricky chapter to write. And I really don't know how it reads. Well, tried my best. Hope that you enjoy it.**

**Woot69**, thank you for your mail! You have so many great lines – some of them stopped my heart then started it back again. And I love this line a lot: 'Those who get into the heavily guarded compound that his heart is incarcerated in are extremely rare.' It's heart-breaking and beautiful. And very true too. I love how you described that Butch has bromance with Saint and romance with Hark :D And you're right. Butch sometimes 'forgets' that Harkness is not flesh and blood. It's strange; he's strange. I don't realise it, honestly. But I am conscious of it, does that make sense? haha I'm soooo happy that you enjoy the interactions, Woot69. I hope you'll enjoy the many more interactions they have. And there is a reason why Butch worries about Harkness; this will be revealed in this chapter. Thank you so much for your lovely comments! I truly appreciate it.

**Also, lilibombe is amazing.** Tell her she is a superlative. Look at The Breakdown: lilibombe(.)deviantart(.)com/art/Fallout-3-The-Breakdown-199303049

**On to the chapter. Beware of hyphen abuse.**

* * *

**Trouble  
Chapter 30**

7 seconds of silence. He could see the changes in Butch's expressions. Anger. That was obvious. Then shock or surprise. Then anger again.

"You think I'm dead," Butch said. He was flexing his fingers. "Dead," he repeated, somewhat breathlessly. Butch scrubbed his face. Ran his fingers through his hair. His eyes flicked over to Harkness and there was a wild glint in them. He opened his mouth then shut it. Clenched his hands into trembling fists as though he wanted to swing at Harkness. He turned away instead. Walked off with heavy stuttering steps. More forceful than usual as they banged on the floor. The line of his back was taut. He was pissed off. Very pissed off. But showing restraint. Somewhat. He passed the lab without glancing inside. Saint had stopped his tinkling from inside the lab. Butch kicked the foot of the table when he reached the living room. Slammed his palm over the 10 mm pistol. And dragged it off the table top, scratching the wood under it with a sharp screech.

Then Butch was out of the house.

Harkness followed. He had started following the moment Butch had reached for the pistol. Because taking a pistol and leaving his pip-boy meant that Butch intended to be reckless. He wanted to kill something. Or injure something or someone. Which meant that he wasn't heading to Bigtown. He was going somewhere else.

When he stepped outside, Butch was already shouting abuse to Dusty and Pappy. Dusty looked at them, watching with too alert eyes; he didn't seem to be paying attention to the abuse hurled at him. Butch walked away. And his chest squeezed itself. Because it looked like Butch wanted to disappear from him. And he didn't like it. Didn't like seeing Butch trying to disappear like that. He went after him.

"Piss off, tin man," Butch growled. He tilted his head and trailed his eyes to Harkness. He didn't stop walking. But he slowed his steps slightly.

"Where the hell are you going?" He continued when Butch didn't respond. "You left your pip-boy."

"Yeah, yeah. It ain't gonna miss me." Butch stilled at that. He turned and stared at him, blue gaze piercing even through narrowed eyes. "Did you mis-" he stopped himself by scrubbing his face again. "Yeah. Sure you did." Frustrated. His fists were clenching again. He was shaking. He looked at Harkness, eyes glinting dangerously. Harkness stepped back before Butch's hands connected with his chest. His hands made contact anyway. "You…" Butch started. He wasn't screaming but he was speaking evenly. Firmly. Words that sounded like harsh hisses through clenched teeth. "All this time…all the shit I've…And you –" He shoved Harkness. "You just –" His gaze hardened. "Was it that _easy_, you bastard?"

_Easy?_ What the hell –

How could he even think –

Every day. Every _fucking_ day it got a bit more complicated in his system. The image of burned bodies pasted in the forefront of his mind. His system._ Butch_ dead. Killed. _Burned._ The word deceased stamped over his face. How was he supposed to deal with that? His system didn't know how to grasp and separate emotions. He wasn't programmed to. He didn't have the capability. And all this time, Butch was what? Lounging around? Playing? Fighting? He could've returned. Could've not left his shit lying around everywhere. Could've let him know that _fuck_, he was still alive. He could've just fucking stayed on the ship. But he left. And his ghosts haunted him. All the instances of Ghost Butch doing magic tricks for him. Just out of reach. Tempting. Mocking. He wasn't programmed for this. No. All these things messing with his system. And his thoughts. And all this emotional bullshit. This? This was easy?

"Fuck you."

Butch's eyes widened at his response. Butch pounced.

The impact stole his breath and slammed him into the ground. His system was immediately on alert. _12.3% damage._ He could hear how the fist sailed through the air before it crashed into the side of his face._25.7% damage_. That actually _hurt_. Butch had gotten much stronger since the last time they wrestled on the bridge.

"Yeah. Can ghosts do that, rust bucket?" Butch snarled. No. Obviously not. The hit racked up the tension in his body. Shot through his metal into his nerves. He was blinking back spots in his vision. He could've dodged the punch. Should've. He didn't know why he didn't. Butch lifted his hand to strike again but this time he was ready. He caught Butch's wrist, stopping the fist just brushing his nose. Butch cursed at the failed jab. He hurled Butch off, scrambling to stand but was yanked down by a very fast grab. They both rolled in the dirt. His system was trying to count the number of sand grains plastered to his body. And was pointlessly telling him that Butch still smelled clean despite the dirt. _Irrelevant._ Butch ended up on him again with a too smug smirk on his face. He grabbed Harkness and banged their heads together. The blow clanged resoundingly in his head. _30.4% damage._ But Butch held his head, groaning. Metal always won against skull. He shoved Butch off. This time he stayed that way, moaning curses pathetically.

When he looked up, he noticed their antics had attracted Dusty, Pappy and Flash. The most capable Bigtowners leaving their posts was not a good idea. Pappy and Flash were wearing amused grins on their faces. Dusty just looked confused, for some reason. Sticky was strangely not here. Not that Sticky was capable. But the kid had an altered form of hero worship for Butch.

Suddenly his legs were knocked out from under him. He landed on the sand again in a cloud of dust. Fingers dug into his arm. And Butch straddled him. In less than a second. Butch curled his fingers into his collar to sneer into his face. He saw the fist again. Before it could hit, he flipped them over that he was pressing Butch into the sand. He quickly grasped both hands behind his back. Pinned Butch face down.

"Get off." Butch bucked under him. _Slithered._ He tried to wrench his hands from Harkness' grip but wasn't succeeding.

"Calm down," he said because he didn't know what else to say. He didn't like Butch trying to lash out at him. And didn't want to harm him. Because he knew he could. Touching Butch to calm him wouldn't do much now. Because he was touching Butch and Butch still wanted to try and punch him. Harkness felt the strong shifts in muscles under his palms. That... He wondered where the hell his own frustration had gone.

"You calm down." Butch squirmed. "Bastard." Legs kicking out from under him. "Bastard _toaster_."

"Butch –"

"Help! Heeeeeeeeelp!" Butch stilled under him. Harkness looked up to see Sticky running to them. He was coming from the north east. His huge eyes seemed bigger and he seemed to be screaming a string of words in one breath. "Ohcrapohcrapohcrapohcrap-" The fear was evident in his face. Shorty was running behind him. Limping. But still running like a crippled radroach. He was swinging around his rifle uselessly. They were making a lot of noise. Why hadn't he heard them before?

_Fuck._

They were heading straight to the mines. They were going to hit the mines. Bullshit. He let go of Butch's hands and scrambled up.

Butch shot out a hand, curling around his arm.

"The mines – "

Too late.

Sticky ran past the mines.

He counted down the seconds.

He disentangled himself from Butch's grip. _One._ Harkness surged forward on his hands and knees. _Two._ He was standing up now. Trying to reach Sticky. Or Shorty. _Three seconds._ He braced himself for the explosion.

It didn't come.

How –

That was impossible. He heard the mines beeping this morning. Were they faulty?

"Chief!" Sticky called, finally reaching him. "ThemanthebadmanandShorty–"

"Shut up and stay back, numbskull," Butch slurred. He was already standing. He squared his shoulders. The anger was gone. Only panic now. Sticky ran to Dusty. Everyone had focused their attention past the faulty mines.

Past the mines, he could see a man running towards them. This man must be the cause of distress. Fair-headed. Bulky. Tall. _Unarmed._ He was running mechanically. Limping _mechanically_. Something unpleasant rippled up Harkness' back. He snatched Butch's pistol from his holster. And pulled the trigger. He saw the bullets fly. Saw the bullets hit.

The man staggered. But he didn't stop coming. Another 5 bullets into both knees. The gun was empty. The chaser kept going. Dragging his legs as he pushed on. He barely even looked at his wounds. There were holes where the bullets pierced the flesh. But – where was the blood?

He took a step forward. Butch hauled him back.

The chaser stepped past the mines.

And this time, he heard the mines set off.

_One second_. The beeps increased in frequency; he stopped in his steps. _Two. _The beeps got louder. He told everyone to back up, back the hell up. _Three _–

Bright. Deafening. Blinding. The explosion was impossibly big. A ball of lightning blue. Arched high into the sky. _10 metres in diameter_. Spreading across the landscape. The chaser was caught in it. He stood frozen in the middle of the blue, mouth gaping. Like he was screaming but there was no sound. He was glowing. Light spilling from his eyes. Sharp jagged blue lines danced around his frame. Erratically. He was twitching in it. The lightning ball spread. _11 metres. 13 metres. 15 metres_. Sinking where it touched the ground. Dispersing into tiny lights that tingled his skin when it reached him. Pulsing.

_Electric._

Bullshit.

His system took charge. Survival status for the chaser: _35.6%. 43.7%. 36.0%. _Meant that he was going to stand again. Not falling yet. Not bleeding. Seemingly unaffected by the open holes in his legs. He might not cause too much damage, but enough. Enough to take out some Bigtowners. And this town wouldn't know how to stop it.

He saw the chaser's focus snap to him amidst all the dispersing blue. Harkness ran forward.

He deflected a punch to his chest. Jammed his foot against a mangled knee and _pressed_. _98% of full strength_. Breaking any resistance. The joint snapped backwards, the sound sick and loud. The chaser dropped, leg broken and swinging awkwardly. Chaser didn't react to it at all. Harkness aimed for the other leg, trying to take out any possibility of him standing up again. Strong hands clutched him instead. Twisting him so fast that he lost his balance. He fell, hitting the ground, pain scattering up his hand and back. _34.9% damage_. A strong, heavy arm slammed against his throat. _42.8% damage_. He jerked. The chaser pinned him down. He smashed the butt of the empty pistol into a temple. The grip on his neck barely wavered but the head above him turned away. He swung again. And again. He heard something crack in that head. A sizeable dent formed below a too bright eye. Skin tore away from the side of the face when he pulled the gun away. The arm pinning him down let go. He wheezed. He saw a huge fist flying to him. Too fast to dodge. It crashed into his chest. His system disconnected for a moment. Another crunch at the same place. _60.7% damage_. The pistol slipped out his grip. He grabbed a wrist.

Too bright, too light eyes stared down at him. Observing. Analysing. _Knowing._

Something landed and rolled 5 metres away from them. They both turned to look. A grenade -

"Get running, Chief."

_Saint._

He elbowed the chaser's chin as hard as he could. Shoving him off, Harkness struggled to stand. He scrabbled across the gravel. Crawling. Pushing–

The brilliant blue washed over him. It was blinding. Shrill metallic cries in his head. Blanked him out. Deafening. Bright. And suddenly, it was the Commonwealth - _Ready _- And Rivet City - And the Wasteland - Flashing in front of his eyes - _A3-21_ - Flooding his vision - _Ready to obey - _Flooding his vessel – He was - _Floating_ - Impossible - Weightless - _A3-21, I am Doctor Zimmer _- What the hell _- About time, Chief - A3-21, you answer to me now - How's your wiring doing?_ - _Harkness -_ _I have a curse - Acceptable losses – _Everything was too fast - _Older models - _His frame felt shattered - _A3-21 was special - Clever -_ Fragmenting - _Harkness -_ _Irreplaceable – _It was burning - _The most advanced - Harkness - synthetic humanoid ever developed – _He was breaking - _Good thing you're here, Chief Hark - _He couldn't - _The town's waiting to go to hell - _Tearing him apart - _Touch him - You flinch. Everytime - _And he was screaming _- That's how you calm him down -_ _I'll lay down my life for - _But the sound's in his head - _anyone and I'm still standing. Someone _- _Harkness -_ _does the same - _And it was so loud - _for me, they'll be dead - _So loud - The light spilled out - And he was ripping apart. His body was aflame. Burning. He couldn't. He was breaking. Splintering on his edges. Every nerve ripped apart. Paralysing. Shattering. The pieces. Digging. Tearing at his skin from the inside. Breaking._ Breaking _–

_Hey, Harkness…_

Hands. Tugging on his hair. Coarse on his cheek. Touching. Warm. _So warm_.

_Breathe._

He choked. And his system grappled on desperately to a faint breath. He gulped on air. Swallowed. Reaching and reaching for threads to connect. Hands pulled him close. Massaging his neck. Stroking his cheeks. He was mouthing words. He couldn't hear his own voice.

And then he was seeing again. The blankness in his vision gave way to living blue. Deep, dark blue. Irises. He drank it in. Drank the way it stared at him. Fear. Unmasked worry. Parted lips whispering. Telling him to breathe. A small dot of blood on the lower lip. A scratch on a cheekbone. He was kneeling in the sand. _They_ were kneeling in the sand. The hands touching him moved. His focus sought it. It slid to his throat. Comforting. Coaxing. A thumb rested on his pulse. He felt the beats resonate through his skin. He felt his pulse responding. Slowing. Calming. He shifted. The blue irises flicked downwards then back to him. Serious now. Confused. And... And unreadable. He ran his palm up the arm holding him. He heard a sharp intake of breath. He could touch leather. Smooth and coarse at the same time. Then, skin. Firm skin. Slick with sweat. Alive. He held on to the wrist, sucking in the feel of an answering pulse on that wrist. Beats nudging his touch. This twining of pulses, it could desynchronise him right now.

"You're fucked up, Harkness." Whispered softly into the small space between them. He could taste that exhalation on his tongue. He had never heard his name uttered like that before. '_So are you_,' he replied in his head because his voice wasn't working.

Then the blue left. So did the touch. And just like that his system re-connected. Every tingle he felt pierced through his flesh. Every bit of information he gathered came back at him in full force. _91.8% damage._ His system assessed. Tried not to power down. He was twitching. Jerking. Trying to restore energy.

He glanced up at Butch who was tense again. Then at the unmoving body not far from him. Dead eyes stared back at him. And he knew. Knew there was something he hadn't considered. Knew that he should've seen it. Should've figured it out.

But he'd been thoroughly distracted.

"I'm sorry," Saint said, appearing right next to him. For once, he wasn't grinning. "Zimmer's not dead."


	31. Chapter 31

**Hello, readers. I apologise for the delay in this chapter as well as in my replies. I'll definitely get back to you. This week has been stressful and challenging. Hope you are doing awesome. Hope everyone in Japan is safe. Take care, Japan.**

**FP**, thank you for your comments! I guess you could marry this story if you wanted. But you should know that you'll be entering into polygamous marriage :) I'm glad you enjoyed 'Trouble' and 'To Tin Can, From Butchman'. Thank you very much.

**Woot69**, I'm happy you liked Chapter 30. I laughed at the fires burning down south comment, omg XD That totally made my day. Thank you for the encouragements on the action scenes. Woah, those were difficult. And erm, you brought up a very good topic that I haven't really considered. I don't really have plans on writing any novels in the real world. But I'm happy that you might buy them :D Thanks, Woot69.

**That said, welcome to Chapter 31. Hope you enjoy it. Sorry again for my lateness.**

* * *

**Trouble  
Chapter 31**

Things were going to hell.

No.

Things had already gone to hell for but he wasn't aware of it.

Bullshit.

_Bullshit._

Why didn't anyone tell him? Synths in the Wastes. This was relevant to him. Probably more relevant to him than Saint or Butch. And the pulse mines. The _anti-android_ pulse mines. Didn't anyone think to warn him of them? Most of all, why didn't anyone fucking tell him about Zimmer?

"Cause I don't know if it's for real," Saint explained. He showed Harkness the android component he had found in the supposed Zimmer's pile of ash. "I plasma-ed him, Chief. Turned him to ash. I didn't expect him to be walking around with his quintuplets." Saint puffed on the two cigarettes stuck in the corners of his lips and looked down at the deactivated synth under his hands. "Well, quadruplets now." He poked the deep dent in the synth's cheek with the handle of the scalpel in his hand. Harkness returned the android component to him.

Dusty and Harkness had hauled the fallen synth onto the table after the explosion because Butch had disappeared into the house, yelling at Saint's 'stupid aim'. Sticky had followed them, vomiting out the story quickly and expressively. He was still fearful of the synth and steered clear of him as they lay him on the table. Apparently, Sticky and Shorty had been hunting molerats because they were sick of squirrel stew. They didn't realise how far from Bigtown they'd strayed. And when they did, it was because they saw Meathead chasing them. Meathead wouldn't stop even after Shorty shot him.

Well, Meathead was stopped now.

Eyes still glassy, dead and open. Staring lifelessly up at the ceiling.

Harkness turned back to the window, looking out in the direction of the police station and slaver country.

The blue lights flickered at him again as it went through its cycle again. Bright, bluish light that lit up the station in three short pulses before it faded. His system told him that it was _R43 G159 B243_. He had a suspicion that he had seen that light before. Or that cycle before. There was no record of R43 G159 B243 and its variations anywhere in his system. And he hadn't encountered it in his memories. The non-answer nagged at him. He had no idea what was going on.

But he knew that he should've figured this out much sooner.

Only, he'd been distracted. Right.

Even back in the room he was distracted.

The room that Vera consistently asked him about every month. The room that Vera consistently asked him to occupy in the aftermath. Zimmer's room. He'd seen it, hadn't he? Had examined it and found nothing. Cots were clear of traps. No odd markings on the walls. No possible fake walls. No clothes. No food. No notes with a distinctive handwriting. No personal belongings. No stupid traps. No sadistic contraptions. No trace of the Zimmer bullshit.

It had bothered him back then, sitting in the room where there was no sense of Zimmer. And that was probably the first thing that should tip him off. Should've seen that Zimmer indeed hadn't been there. He'd sent a replica of himself instead. He should have shot the fucker instead of Saint.

The only thing that was out of place in the room was that letter. Addressed to Eulogy Jones and hidden in the book. The one that held his activation code. The letter would've meant nothing to anyone else. But if an android saw it, he should be able to understand its significance. Could understand that it was both a threat and an invitation to return to the Commonwealth. But he hadn't thought of that because Zimmer was dead, _was_ dead, then.

"Was there an android when you burned Paradise Falls?" he asked, while still looking out the window. He heard Saint stop poking Meathead's metal. He attributed the quiet pause to the fact that he hadn't mentioned his suspicions about Paradise Falls. No one mentioned Paradise Falls.

"Nah," Saint finally replied. "But there was some sorta slaver army. Fuck, that was a pain in the ass. And neck. Mostly ass." He heard Saint flicking open his lighter then shut it. "Paradise Falls had it coming, Chief. You're just one more reason the place should burn."

Looking away from the insistent blue lights, he caught Saint's stare. Observational. And almost bored-looking. Saint lit up one more cigarette to force between his lips. The grin on his face widened and none of the three cigarettes slipped off. He didn't know what the grin was for. But it had been pasted on Saint's face shortly after Saint had apologised to him yet again, _third time,_ for getting him caught in the electric explosion. That was 3 hours 16 minutes 25 seconds ago. His system was still focused on healing. _Restoring, 71% in operation. _And despite Saint advising him to, he wasn't going to sleep. He didn't want to.

He bit down on the cigarette in his mouth. It was unlit because he needed to focus right now. Needed to see everything. Couldn't afford to miss anything.

As he turned around to watch Saint pick apart Meathead, he heard Butch walking to the front room. They hadn't spoken since the explosion. Which was probably for the better. If they did, their interrupted argument would most probably resume. And Harkness didn't want to fight Butch. And didn't particularly like the way Butch wanted to hurt him. Butch probably wouldn't cause irreversible damage to his system but the intention to hurt him was still there. The tension between them was still present. Only in an escalated form now. He gripped the pouch in his pocket.

Butch emerged, clean and showered. Skin glistening. He was walking around with just a pair of pants, unbuttoned and riding low on his hips. No jacket. Because there was blood on it. _Synthetic_ blood. Apparently, after the explosion, Harkness was spilling blood down his lips; some of the drops had landed on the jacket. That might be why none of the Bigtowners realised that he was a machine despite being obviously affected by the pulse grenade. Machines didn't bleed. Harkness wiped his mouth. Dry. He watched Butch step closer to the deactivated Meathead. Butch angled his face down, close to Meathead's face. Watching that closeness made him feel short of breath.

"You know this guy?" Saint asked, pressing his gloved fingers in the exposed metal on Meathead's temple.

"No." Butch and Saint looked up at him. "Never seen any models like this." He scanned through the billions of images in his system. "There might be prototype blueprints, but they were irrelevant."

Saint pulled back Meathead's eyelids. Shone a light into his eyes. There was almost no colour in them. Just a shade of grey where the irises started. Saint pulled back Meathead's lips. Teeth perfectly white. Perfectly aligned. Saint exhaled another long stream of smoke, a bit of ash dropping onto Meathead's chest. He wiped the scalpel on the back of his glove. He had cut an impressively straight line across the torso. There wasn't blood or any fluid pooling out from the cut but Saint was wiping the scalpel as though there was. Saint's precise motions implied that he might be used to cutting people up. For surgery, probably. Or not. Butch winced when Saint pulled back the cut flesh. He lifted his eyes to Harkness. Then turned back to the other android. Butch was licking that puncture on his lips, tongue flicking over his lips, wetting them. His face was passive. Unreadable. Shuttered. What was he thinking of? Did he see the similarities between the android on the table and him?

Now that Butch had unleashed whatever in him, his mess had somewhat settled low in his gut, snarling and coiling, biting and being a lump of… something unpleasant. He'd figured out some threads of why he was having this mess. Frustration, mostly. But his system was too exhausted to decipher any more of it. He had endured more than 6 months of the mess. He definitely was capable of enduring longer than that.

Bullshit.

He was distracted again.

"So," Butch started, voice deep and low. He ran his fingers through wet hair.

"So," Saint replied, grin in place.

"What's the plan?"

"What plan?"

"Ain't we gonna fight?"

"Eh?"

"Meathead clones. We fightin' them?"

"Hmmm?"

"Nosebleed. Don't fuckin' tempt me, alright." Usually, he would just smack Saint on his head, but the hit didn't come. It meant that Butch was not in his usual Butch mode. Saint didn't move for some time, 42 seconds. And when he moved, it was his eyes that moved. Flicking to Harkness then back to the flayed open android on the table.

"Chiefy," Saint said, the inflection in his tone suggested that he wanted Harkness to answer. Harkness didn't. Saint coughed, and then tried again. "_Chiefy_. What's the plan? Ain't we gonna fight Meathead clones?" Harkness stilled. Butch stared at him over the table. Sharp and intense. Piercing.

"Zimmer will trace the synth. He'll come to us."

"You gotta be kiddin'. What kinda plan is that?" Butch snapped. Eyes wild, now. He was baiting him for a fight. He'd seen Butch do that often enough pre-battle and mid-battle and post-battle to know for sure.

"It's practical."

"Sittin' and waitin'?" Butch snarled. He was flexing his hands, clenching them into fists. "Good at that, ain't you?" he said, tone low and rough. Harkness felt his system twitch at that.

"Yes," he answered. He had programmed himself to be good at sitting and waiting. _Hell_. He did that for months, _6 months 29 days 23 hours 5 minutes 37 seconds_. Waiting even though his system reminded him that no one was coming for him.

Butch stared at him. The gaze pointed and searching. His shoulders slumped and he unclenched his fists. He just looked tired now. And slightly lost. They stared at each other over the body on the table until Saint coughed, breaking the tension. Butch slotted his hands into his pockets when he looked away, a slight flush coming up his neck. Instantly, Harkness could feel the warm hands sliding on him just 4 hours 7 minutes 38 seconds ago. Saint coughed again. He reached up to his chain, pulling the lighter and flicking it open. He held it open for Harkness. Harkness lit his cigarette, wondering if he should be bothered that he was so transparent that Saint could read him.

"You said Zimmer'll come for this one," Saint said, pointing to the synth. "Why not you?"

"I ripped out my own tracker. He can't detect me." He inhaled. Exhaled. "And it's not me he's trying to find." But if Zimmer didn't, why would he need such a powerful android like Meathead?

A normal synth wouldn't chase Sticky and Shorty like that. Unless, it was programmed in their system. And if it was programmed, why? What the hell did Meathead want with humans? The strength Meathead had. Meathead was overqualified; it was more logical for Meathead to hunt androids instead of humans. _Quintuplets._ Saint said quintuplets. Another four of Meathead's calibre walking the Wastes was dangerous. They had to be taken out as soon as possible. He watched the blue lights mock him from the station. What kind of machine would be causing those lights? And what was it for? He didn't know what to expect should he enter the building. To invade the station without any hint of what was going on was dangerous, a major tactical error. Then again, he could go in, start fighting and not stop till the bastard was dead. He could. He could save humanity. Die for it. Except that he wasn't Saint. And he wasn't human.

He watched Saint's, Butch's and his own reflection in the broken panes of glass. All of them looked grim. All of them looked like they very much wanted to storm the station.

Finally, he knew why he was here in Bigtown.


	32. Chapter 32

**Earlier I had trouble uploading this chapter because the site wouldn't let me. Because of this, I've come up with some kind of system. My dear readers, should you find that the chapters are later than usual, I suggest you head to my homepage for update status. **

**Hello all. Thank you very much for reading and for your encouraging reviews. **I'm sorry if the story has disappointed you especially in the Butch/Harkness department in terms of its slow-ness and its overall lack of Butch/Harkness. I… really don't know what else to say. I'm following a plotline and I wish I can type longer chapters but well... I'm trying my best.

_**Woot69**_, thank you very much for your encouragements. And honestly, what keeps you going, is the exact same thing that keeps me going :D

**Also, I want to direct you to some lovely, lovely art:**  
**The Outsider by DrowVisionary**, drowvisionary(.)deviantart(.)com/art/fallout-the-outsider-200122019  
**Sketchy ButchXHarkness by NekoHellAngel**, nekohellangel(.)deviantart(.)com/art/Sketchy-ButchXHarkness-200233868  
**trouble by layclay**, layclay(.)deviantart(.)com/art/fallout-trouble-200261748  
Seriously awesome stuff. Check them out. Their galleries are lovely too.

**Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoy this chapter :)**

* * *

**Trouble  
Chapter 32**

It had been 36 hours 15 minutes 7 seconds since Meathead arrived. And no one had come to collect him yet. Meathead was now sewed shut and positioned to sit in a chair, a cigarette dangling from him lips, dead eyes hidden by a pair of glasses. Saint was a sick bastard. At the station, the blue lights still followed its cycle without fail. And the town was still at its constantly high level of anxiety. Approximately 12 hours ago, everyone voiced their worries in a series of accusations and denials. Pointing fingers at Shorty and Sticky for leading Meathead to Bigtown. Pointing at Dusty for his lack of vigilance. Bittercup for her blood rituals. Flash for his stupid hair. Timebomb for his sick, sorry ass. Bigtown was high-strung. Tense. Anxious. Afraid. Eventually, they pointed at Saint, bombarding him with questions; what was going to happen now, were they all going to die, first it was muties, then slavers, now androids, wasn't Saint going to help them like he promised? Saint took their words with a grin that was soft, not its usual hard edged smile. He apologised. And Bigtown shut up. When Saint told them that they might be rear-ended by Meatheads soon, Bigtown's silence turned weighted. Unexpected. They wanted to fight.

In the midst of it all, Harkness saw Butch swipe a bottle of whiskey from the table. Their eyes met and there was a tiny, almost invisible quirk of the left corner of Butch's lips which meant that he was proud of himself. Then Butch frowned and looked away.

That night, instead of Butch by his side, Dusty had climbed to the roof to keep watch. They talked about gun handling. They talked about Rivet City. Dusty asked if he missed the ship. Harkness said he did. But his chest ached for other reasons. Below, in the middle of Bigtown, Butch was wrestling with Flash and Pappy, fighting in the dark. Kimba was stationed at Dusty's post.

In the morning, Harkness shaved off his scruff, cutting his chin in the process. He watched the synthetic drip into the sink, feeling it sting when he touched it. He wondered how much different that made him from Meathead. How much more vulnerable, how much less indestructible. He wondered if Saint saw nothing different. He waited for the cut to dry into a red shape on his chin before washing his face. When he rinsed his mouth, he felt the familiar rake of a gaze on his back. He turned to see Butch. Leaning against the door-less doorway, his hand curled around the stolen bottle of whiskey. Not moving. His lower lip trapped between his teeth. He was just looking. Staring. Openly. Intently. He saw the gaze travel down his legs. Up his back. Over his skin. Heated and deliberate. When the gaze reached his face, Butch narrowed his eyes. Turned away. Walked off.

This was... bullshit. They still hadn't spoken. Their communication had been reduced to this endless watching and never saying anything. What could be said, anyway? It was pointless to add on to this tension the whole town was facing. Pointless to add more friction between them. These non-conversations were probably better than talking with their fists. Because of that, the mess in him had somewhat settled.

10 hours 16 minutes 29 seconds after getting caught in the pulse blast, his system had stopped restoring. And stopped charging at _99% in operation_. He had tried forcing himself to charge. But his system wouldn't go past 99.1%. Probably, the fight caused some permanent damage. Probably, Meathead was more formidable than he thought. Either way, he was still in operation and ready for anything that Zimmer might have planned. It was all that mattered at the moment.

"Chiefy, I'm gonna show you something." Saint patted him on his left shoulder, pulling him away from the window. He had stood there looking at the station for 2 hours 17 minutes 52 seconds after leaving Dusty on the roof. He faced Saint, his eyes taking a little more than a second to adjust from stark brightness to the dimness in the house. When his vision focused, he saw that Saint was holding up a grenade. A _pulse_ grenade.

By this time, Butch had hauled Saint back by the chain he wore around his neck. He hissed into Saint's face. "Nosebleed, what the –"

"I just wanna teach him how to use it," Saint explained. The lighter on his chain was lodged just under his Adam's apple and he tugged his chain out of Butch's grip.

"What the fuck? He's a tin can. What if he…" Butch's voice trailed off and he glanced at Harkness. His eyes were bloodshot. And he was pale. Slightly paler. He saw the eyes flick to the cut on his chin.

"Think about it, Butchie. Chiefy's the only one who won't hurt himself." Saint turned to Butch, tossing the grenade from one hand to the other. "He won't blow himself up."

That was logical. He definitely wouldn't blow himself up. And he'd be careful enough not to get caught in the blast. Especially after making sure that any and all androids would engage _him_ in battle instead of anyone else. He eyed the pulse grenade in Saint's hands. Saint stopped tossing the grenade to look at Butch.

"Actually, you should learn this too."

"What? Fuck no." Butch stepped back, frowning.

"Why not?" Butch shook his head at Saint then. He zipped up his jacket, turning away from them. He headed to the door. Saint followed him. "Come on," Saint persuaded, poking Butch in the shoulder. Butch grunted. "What if 4 Meatheads are running at you?"

"I'll fight them."

"Butch –"

"Johnny." Butch turned to Saint. And Saint stopped. They stood unmoving for a few seconds, _5 seconds_, before Butch glanced at Harkness again. Then he was out the door.

When Saint turned, _18 seconds later_, the grin was gone but he beckoned for Harkness to follow. Outside, he saw that Butch had engaged Flash in battle. He seemed to actually be teaching this time, directing Flash to punch him while Pappy, Sticky and Kimba watched.

Saint and Harkness walked around the house, where the pulse mines had been. Saint hadn't set them up again. They both stared at the station before Saint shoved the grenade into his hands.

The grenade was a solid weight in his hands. Metal and plastic combined in loops. Shaped into a cylinder. It was oddly clean. It made him think that Saint scrubbed at the metal till it shone. The shiny metal glinted in the sunlight. He curled his fingers around the grenade feeling nothing but unyielding metal. Not cold. Or hot. Just smooth metal. On its bottom, there was a bar, a key. An arrow indicated that the key should be turned clockwise.

"Go ahead, Chiefy. Turn it and throw. You got 3 seconds before it detonates."

"No target?"

"Do you need one? I already know you got perfect aim."

Right.

He twisted the key till it clicked. It started beeping in his hand. He threw it. It sailed in a perfect arc before bouncing in the dirt with a thud. Twice. Before it rolled away. A second later, it detonated in a sphere of electric blue, charged and potent. It arched in the sky. Spreading quickly to 10 metres. Then 11 metres. The crackling sound was loud. His system twitched at the sight. It was unsettling watching this force, knowing exactly how it had felt to be caught in that. Remembering how it felt as though his wires were ripped through his skin. He felt his pulse jump.

"If 4 Meatheads are running at…" he started. Saint faced him. He re-phrased his question. "Do the grenades harm humans?"

"A little. No android spasms. But it zings. Then it burns. Then it leaves a scar. Closer to the epicentre and it burns a little more. Leave a bigger scar." Saint chuckled. "Then again, I was naked at the time."

Right.

They watched the blue dissipate at 15 metres.

They walked towards the shooting range, where Shorty, Bittercup and Timebomb were practising. Shorty was leaning heavily on one leg because the other was still healing, wrapped in a dirty bandage. He had good aim, _76.5% accuracy_. Bittercup was actually a capable shot, _73.4% accuracy_, but she liked to pretend that she didn't. Timebomb's bullets tended to ricochet off the shelves. Seeing the problem, Harkness pushed Timebomb's shoulders approximately 5.3 centimetres forward, his right leg 9.4 centimetres further from his left leg and 2.3 centimetres back. His next shot actually hit a target, a teddy bear. His eyes widened as he looked bashfully at Harkness.

24 minutes 10 seconds later, Harkness glanced at Butch to see him already watching. He was drinking the whiskey, pouring it into his mouth in a crude way that made it apparent that he was used to the alcohol burning his throat.

He turned back to Timebomb. Saint grinned at him.

"Johnny!" Dusty called from the roof. "Meathead."

Bullshit.

They moved. Harkness clicked the safety on his rifle. Butch followed them, zipping up his jacket. In the distance, two figures were heading to Bigtown. Meathead was clearly one of them. A splitting image of the deactivated Meathead inside the house. Tall. Fair. Bulky. The only difference was that this Meathead was carrying a rifle. Bodyguard mode, then. He was protecting the man walking beside him. The shorter man was a striking red figure in the distance. He was wearing a suit. A bright red suit. The red coat reaching his knees. A hat covered his features. Clearly, he was a man with some degree of wealth. Or authority. Not a common Wastelander. But not Zimmer either.

Saint pushed down Harkness' gun; he didn't want Harkness to shoot. Why? Saint's face was set in a determined expression as he looked at the two approaching figures. "Don't say a fucking word," he warned both of them just as the figures reached them.

"Well, well, well. I'm surprised to see you here, Johnny Saint," the red man spoke; his voice airy and tone friendly. Saint grinned. Charming. Disarming. He grinned like he was overjoyed by this man's presence. It was disconcerting.

"Likewise." His grin widened. "Welcome to Bigtown, Mr. Eulogy."


	33. Chapter 33

**Hey all. Thank you very much for your support and encouragement. Just so you know, your reviews/comments/feedback is extremely, EXTREMELY valuable. Thank you. **

**FP, **thank you very much for your comments! :) I usually like to give personal replies. As I have no way to contact you, I prefer to leave a reply here.

**Woot69, **I'm glad you liked Hark's solo shaving scene with Butch watching. (I kinda do too) :D Thank you for your comments!

**Have more beautiful art. Seriously. Look at this and weep. I did. Rivet City Hooligan by Gobeur : gobeur(.)deviantart(.)com/art/Rivet-City-Hooligan-202454783**

**Welcome to Chapter 33. I have to warn you that this chapter has mild gore. Very mild but still gory, kinda. Hope you enjoy this chapter.**

* * *

**Trouble  
Chapter 33**

"No collars, Saint?" Eulogy pointed at Butch and Harkness. "You gotta be careful using a slave as a bodyguard. They're not motivated to keep you alive."

"They're collared. Just not around their necks," Saint answered smoothly. Eulogy laughed, the sound nasal and crisply pleasant.

"You're a true visionary," he told Saint. Saint beamed at him. It was disconcerting to watch the all-teeth grin turned charming and friendly. It invited Eulogy into the house. The well-dressed man entered. His eyes fell on bespectacled Meathead sitting in the chair. Eulogy took determined steps towards Meathead, his coat swaying around him. The other Meathead stayed by the open door eyeing Harkness and Butch and Saint in a detached way. His hands were still curled around his hunting rifle.

"I see that you've taken good care of my merchandise," Eulogy said to Saint.

"I always do, Mr Eulogy." Saint grinned wider at Eulogy. Eulogy's smile turned wistful. He adjusted Meathead's spectacles on the bridge of his nose with oddly gentle hands.

"Did you look him over?" he asked Saint.

"Yeah. He's not human," Saint said. Eulogy smiled at him as he stood up.

"Zeno's a prime specimen, isn't he?" Zeno? "He's a gift. A good long-term investment." Saint stared at Eulogy, face in a curious expression. When Eulogy faced him, the curiosity had changed into awe, like he was smitten. Disconcerting.

13 minutes 17 seconds later, Saint and Eulogy were sharing a bottle of vodka. Drinking neatly out of clean shot glasses. Saint had pulled on his jumpsuit and actually zipped it up, covering up his alien map of skin. Eulogy had kept his red coat on, but his hat was now on the table, dark purple with a frayed feather sticking out from the band. His shoes were polished. So were his rings, _3 rings_, 2 on his left hand and 1 on his right thumb. Both Saint and Eulogy chatted like long lost friends about some deceased dog named Grouse. This friendly illusion was broken approximately every 3 minutes, when Saint shot warning glances towards Harkness or Butch. Those glances said 'Shut up. Shut the fuck up.' with a smile. He had no idea what Saint was doing. He only knew that he was supposed to shut up because Eulogy assumed he was Saint's slave. He doubted Butch knew either. But Butch was here leaning against the wall like he was already waiting to fight. Bored and tense at the same time. He was behaving like he had been through this routine before. Maybe he had. Maybe this was how Saint got into Eulogy's good books. Butch was holding onto his bat with his left grip. There was the reddish tint across his cheeks from drinking whiskey. But he didn't seem drunk. His eyes were still bloodshot, though. Like he hadn't slept. He hadn't. Not really. Under his lashes, he was watching the new Meathead. Watching him intently in an intimidating manner. Like he was just seconds away from jumping him.

Across the room, the new Meathead had fixed his focus on the wall, seemingly unbothered. Harkness knew better.

"Knock it off," he whispered. Butch turned to him, taking his eyes off the new Meathead. "Don't look at him like that."

Butch frowned. He looked over at the new Meathead then back at him. Then he sneered. Nastily.

"What? You jealous or somethin'?" Butch whispered harshly back. Harkness stared at him, noting the tiny quirk of his lips, curling the sneer into a smirk.

"He's marking you as a hostile target." Harkness inched forwards, trying to transfer some of Meathead's focus on him instead of Butch. "Anything jumps; he'll take you out first." Butch flicked his eyes over to Meathead again. He was a little more serious now. A little less bored now, too. He looked away from Meathead. His shoulders had relaxed a little. He eyed Harkness' legs which had shifted a little closer.

"…Sure," Butch said, voice low and rough. The heavy gaze was now directed at him. Butch leaned his head against the wall, baring his column of throat. He was staring at Harkness. At his face. Or somewhere on his face. It was the same intense, intimidating look he had aimed at Meathead, only more heated. He looked like he wanted to assault Harkness. It was unsettling. It almost made his system raise an alert.

From the window, Saint and Eulogy laughed at something. It broke the sudden silence. He noted the way the new Meathead turned to them. Accessing. When the laughter died, Eulogy reached for his hat, putting it on his head with a flourish. He was about to leave. He rubbed his hands together.

"I'm sure you've noticed that my empire has fallen. You travel the Wastes, Saint. Do you know anything about it?"

"No." Saint said easily, sounding so honest that there was no doubt he was telling the truth even though he wasn't. Eulogy nodded, obviously not suspecting anything.

"It was devastating. A massacre. Never seen anything like it. No one was left. Ymir. Cutter. Pronto. All dead. Whoever it was even let your captives out." Eulogy spoke gravely. Polite but underneath that, was a hint of aggression. Like a raider that was just learning to speak business. Like a raider that was trying to rein in his violent nature. Saint stepped towards Eulogy. "I wasn't there. It happened during my trip to the Commonwealth."

Bullshit.

"Commonwealth?" Saint blurted out the question in Harkness' system.

"Yes. Well, the Institute, specifically. My associate needed some supplies to start our side enterprise. Of course, I didn't expect to lose Paradise Falls, then. Now, this project is all I've got left. With the lack of resources, it's difficult…" Eulogy trailed off, facing Saint. His expression turned calculative. "Saint, you're resourceful, aren't you?"

Saint grinned.

5 minutes 3 seconds later, they left Saint's house. Dusty stared at them from the roof, frozen on the spot. Saint didn't seem bothered by him. Saint wasn't even bothered enough to bring along some form of weapon. He walked beside Eulogy freely, like he had no cares in the world. The jumpsuit barely offered protection. Reckless. The new Meathead was carrying the deactivated Meathead, named Zeno, over a shoulder like he weighed nothing. Eyes still dead behind the glasses. The cigarette still clamped between his shut lips. Eulogy called the new Meathead Serge. Serge was definitely strong. And he was still holding onto the hunting rifle. He would most probably still be able to shoot even with another android slung over his shoulder. Serge walked a consistent speed, at a constant 1 metre distance behind Eulogy.

Harkness maintained that same distance behind Saint but made sure to be less consistent. Butch was naturally inconsistent. Butch had thrown the bottle of whiskey over onto the sand. Not empty. Not full either. Harkness held the assault rifle a little tighter. Walked a little closer to Butch. Deliberately accidentally nudging him to walk further away from Serge's grabbing distance. Butch eyed him strangely. Butch could assume this was jealousy or whatever he wanted, just as long as he wasn't close to the Meatheads.

In front of the group, Saint and Eulogy were discussing the 'business plan'. Something about 'rebuilding a Paradise for the future'. There was no useful information yet. Just roundabout conversations about how the associate was a genius and so was Eulogy for coming up with this plan. Zimmer's name hadn't been mentioned; Eulogy referred to his associate simply as Doctor. Ahead, the police station loomed. The blue light cycle hadn't started yet.

A rusted, blood-spattered sign greeted them. _Germantown Police Headquarters._ They walked around the perimeter, along a tall metal fence reinforced by a brick wall. They passed a metal gate. Followed the route to the building entrance. It was quiet here. Silent. The area smelled of stale blood and decomposition. In the front yard of the station there were 7 unoccupied tents. _Military._ 5 of them were standing. 2 had fallen, dirty green canvas heaped onto the ground. There was a hill of skeletons in the tent nearest to the front doors. White bones. Picked clean. Piled beside a massive gorebag filled with entrails and some red gelatinous goo. In the next tent, there was a Supermutant carcass.

It stared up at the tent's canopy with lifeless eyes wide open. The mutie's head was lying in the pool of congealed stale blood. Blood had run out the mutie's eyes, trailing down the sides of his face. There were pinkish, greyish chunks in the dried red pool. The same flecks of pinkish grey were all over the mutie's mouth and nose. Looked like brain matter. Harkness felt a tremor on the back of his neck as he recalled the unfortunate intern, _Chris, 22 years old_, caught in a trap of Zimmer's doing. The intern had writhed. Bled from his eyes. Sputtered flecks of pinkish spit on the floor. His brain had been liquefied, caused by a 'stray' charge. His brain had liquefied and bled out his eye sockets.

Harkness must've shown something on his face because Butch stared at him. Concerned. Harkness loosened his grip on the rifle. Serge tracked that action with his eyes.

"This used to be a Supermutant stronghold," Eulogy started. "Some months prior, the whole group left. They got scared off." Eulogy continued, the aggression in his tone clearer, easier to read. Saint trailed his eyes over the mutie and followed Eulogy.

They entered a side door into the building. There was nobody on guard. The hallways were bathed in sickly looking light. The walls had mould, pockmarks, and stains of every nature. Butch scrunched up his nose, muttering that it stank under his breath. They climbed a flight of stairs. It was dimmer on this level. Smelled a little thicker too. Cloying. Like blood and waste. From within the dimness came a whimper. Someone in pain. Sounded like a woman. Then there was talking. Like a child was crying.

"Sounds like home, doesn't it, Saint?" Eulogy commented pleasantly without looking at Saint for a response. The grin on Saint's face lost every trace of humour. He lit a cigarette between his lips. They continued their journey down the hall towards the sound. Eulogy turned into a door to the left. Saint followed. When the rest of the group entered, Butch hissed a curse.

The room was brighter than the hallways. It housed a cage. A locked cell. Inside that cell, were 5 people; a woman, 3 men and a girl. There was also a rotting corpse of a man. His hands were cut off into stumps. It was clear that he had bled to death. The remaining living inhabitants looked pale. Weak. Dirty. Haggard. All of them were injured. Limbs positioned in awkward bends. Limbs positioned like they were broken. The woman had cried out, cursing at Eulogy as soon as he entered the room. She was the only one who didn't crawl away from the door when the group entered. Both her legs were injured, bleeding from gaping wounds in her ankles. One man was sitting in the corner; his right leg bending the opposite way. The exposed limb had a greenish hue over the knee and down the shin. The leg looked like it had died before its owner did. The child was cradling her left arm. Her fingers clenched into fists, knuckles turned white. She was trying to hold back the pain, letting out a soft whimper each time she moved. She reminded him of C J Young. All their eyes were targeted at the Meatheads. They were afraid.

"You can't sell them," Saint said. His voice was level. Calm, even though his eyes had a dangerous, mad glint in them. He pulled out another cigarette. "They're damaged goods. You can't get a good price for them."

"Don't worry, Saint," Eulogy chuckled. "After they're fixed and wired, they'll fetch us a fortune."


	34. Chapter 34

**Edited. Thank you Sheepy! All this time, I had the idea that **_**'he was'**_** could be written as **_**'he's' **_**and that's totally wrong. After two decades of speaking English, finally, today, I've learned that**_** 'he's' **_**is the contraction for**_** 'he is' **_**or**_** 'he has' **_**and not**_** 'he was'.**_** Same for**_** 'They're'. **_**It's read as**_** 'they are' **_**and not**_** 'they were'. **_***facepalms* I swear I didn't know. And bloody hell, that's a LOT of chapters and stories to edit.**

**Hello again. Here's another chapter. I don't know how this reads but I tried my best. I hope that you enjoy the chapter. Thank you very much for reading. All of you are so awesome.**

**Dear** **Woot69**, you flatter me so. And 'Any chance we're going to get some warm, succulent '*ahem* 'loving any time soon?' Well, yes. But not so soon. And probably not succulent. But warm? Yes. If all goes well, that is. Pretty warm. Maybe. :D

* * *

**Trouble  
Chapter 34**

The whole room was waiting. Everyone had stopped because Saint had stopped. And since the moment they started this journey, Harkness realised that they were here not because Saint trusted Eulogy. It was because Eulogy trusted Saint.

The woman in the cell who had cussed at Eulogy now shut up. She had heard the conversation. All of them did. And from the way her shoulders slumped, she seemed defeated. Saint's grin faltered at the edges as his eyes narrowed. He was reaching for his lighter and flicking it open, trying to light his already lit cigarette. His eyes were on the flame, mesmerised by it. So engrossed in his own thoughts, his grin frozen on his face as he held on to the lighter, the flame burning close to his nose. He was seeing past that. He was looking at the cell, while Eulogy stood next to him. Looking at the woman who was sobbing.

Butch hissed. Then he hissed again. The line of his back was tense. He was flexing his fingers. Restless. His grip loosened and tightened around the shaft of his bat, digging nails into the snake in the wood. It was restraint. He was restraining himself. Obviously upset. His eyes flicked over to the lock on the cell door.

When Butch turned to Saint, his gaze was urgent and searching. Waiting for Saint to give the word and they'd do it. They'd break the lock. Break these people out.

But Saint barely looked back. Saint was avoiding Butch's eyes completely. Deliberately. Ignoring him. Butch tensed a little more. Lips pursed a little more. He stared into the cell and he cursed under his breath.

Saint shut the lighter closed with an audible click. He still hadn't given any sign that he wanted to break these captives out. He was listening to Eulogy talking about Paradise Falls again with a smile. He tipped the corners of his lips up, and he grinned as though all was right with the world. As though there weren't people bleeding on the other side of the bars.

"With all due respect, Mr Eulogy," Saint started. "They look un-fixable. No duct tape's gonna fix that."

"These androids," Eulogy said affectionately. "They don't know how to hold someone without hurting them." Right. That was why Zeno was running after Sticky and Shorty. He was trying to capture them. Bring them back here. But why? "The Doctor will fix them, Saint." Eulogy straightened up, unclasping his hands from behind his back. "You'll see." Eulogy gestured for them to leave. Saint finally shot Butch a reassuring look before he exited through the doorway.

Butch didn't move. He didn't seem to want to. Eyes still looking past the bars. Flicking over to the lock. He was considering picking the lock, probably. His fingers tightened around the bat as his face settled into a look of determination. Whatever he was thinking of was making him frown. It was making Serge edgy, his machine gaze focused solely on Butch now. He wasn't even trying to be discreet as he held his rifle steady despite Zeno hanging over his shoulder. Not a good thing.

Harkness took a step closer. Butch trailed his eyes away from the cell to him.

"They're safer in there," he whispered. With all these supposed Meatheads running around, and 2 undead sick bastards in the building, really, the cell, was probably the safest place for these people right now.

"Yeah?" Butch faced him.

"Yeah. And I don't like the way he looks at you." He nodded at Serge who was watching them intently. Butch let out a huff of breath that sounded like a chuckle. Just a huff of breath smelling like whiskey. He took one more look at the cell, Serge and Harkness before walking out. Harkness made sure to glare at Serge who tilted his head at him. Outside, Butch bumped against him.

"I still wanna hit you, y'know," he said with a faint smirk.

"Anything you want, Butch." The words fell easily from his lips.

Another 2 flights of stairs. Another dim hallway. The group walked briskly, their steps echoing the empty hallways. Up ahead, there was a constant dull hum in the air. Sounded like machinery. Getting closer to the core of the problem, then. There was the slow whirring sound of gears turning. A consistent _tick tick tick_ of something mechanical. He wouldn't be able to differentiate what kind of machines made those noises because those sounds were generic. He had heard those sounds before. Back in the Commonwealth.

Dark coloured double doors. Eulogy reached for the door handles with the same flourish he had while putting on his hat. His coat swirled around him as he pulled the doors open.

Instantly, their faces were hit with the smell of metal. Sharp. Clinical. All too familiar.

He'd never thought he had to face this bullshit again but here he was; half a step away from the hellhole he got out of.

Bullshit.

It_ did_ resemble the hellhole he had left in the Commonwealth. It was like the place he had 'lived' in for years, serving a sick bastard of a master. He warily stepped past the doors. Into a bright room. Something like a lab. There were no windows here. Every source of light came from the bulbs in the ceiling. Bright 150 watt like in the Commonwealth as opposed to the usual 60 watt that was more available in the Wastes.

There was metal everywhere. Huge computers, 2 of them lined the right wall. Blinking lights at him. Amber and red dots flashing across the black control panels. He didn't know what the hell they were beeping at him. The dull hum came from those machines. There were spools of wires across the floor. Tendrils of black, white, grey, green; they were Commonwealth common wildlife. Saint walked over them like they didn't bother him. Eulogy stepped gingerly around them, almost respectfully, avoiding them with light steps. Butch kicked them away where he stepped. He had his right hand on the pistol in his holster, _safety off_. The left hand still curled around his bat. He was swivelling his eyes, darting from side to side, taking everything in. Harkness recognised that he walked over the wires the same way Serge did, stepping on them but varying the weight placed in each step. Eulogy ordered Serge around, pointing at a pair of shut doors at the furthest wall. Serge pushed open the doors and disappeared into the darkness. When he returned, _1 second later_, Zeno was no longer on his shoulder. He must've deposited the Meathead in that room. Serge stood beside those doors, casting a blank gaze at the wall but doubtlessly seeing everything. Harkness expected to see more Meatheads here. But there was still just Serge. This lack of security in the building was worrisome. It meant that any imposing threats weren't recognised as threatening. Reasonable enough. 5 Meatheads watching over 1 facility was as good as a ship full of guards. But it also meant that his own rifle might not even cause a dent of damage here.

This room was a mess. Not like Saint's mess or Butch's mess or the mess in his own system. This mess was gratingly familiar to him. This place. It gave off an air similar to that of the Commonwealth. Of Zimmer's bullshit. And on the tables in the middle of the room were the first traces of the bastard. Traces that he had been looking for back in Rivet City when he inspected the room.

He felt the ripple of loathing rise up in him.

Notes strewn all over the tabletops. Zimmer's almost illegible handwriting was scrawled over pages in books and stray pieces of paper. Holotapes. Numbers. Calculations. Blueprints. Sketches. There was a manual on how to create a splint. A crutch. A brace. There was also a rectangular box with an antenna, knobs and dials on its top. An unplugged monitor. An empty glass bottle. Turpentine. Rolls of surgical tape. Unconnected wires. A fission battery. 3 clipboards. Sensor modules. Saint picked up a sheet of paper from the loose sheets of paper. He held it up to Harkness. It had what appeared to be a crude sketch of a man. An anatomical diagram. Measurements and notes were printed beside the figure. '_Arms: 18.5, Thighs: 27, Chest: 54. Fit with brace. Riveting may work better. Solution: solder_.'

"Never seen anything like this," he told Saint who nodded. What the hell was the bastard up to? He had guessed that Eulogy wanted to sell the prisoners but… Zimmer. What the hell was going on?

Eulogy had made himself at home by pouring Saint a drink from a bottle. Red wine. Saint accepted the glass and sipped neatly. He followed Eulogy around the room as the man explained that they needed Saint because they were out of materials for the 'experiments' and that Saint was a much better conversationalist than the Doctor.

These mundane matters made him impatient. Butch glanced at him.

3 minutes 42 seconds of pointless chattering later, Eulogy headed to the darkened room next door. Saint followed him.

Saint stopped in the doorway when the lights came on.

"Chiefy," Saint called him without turning.

Harkness marched forward. He could hear Butch behind him.

It was another lab. Bigger than the previous one. Dimmer and brighter at the same time. Brighter in the middle of the room and dim at the edges where the windows were. The room was clean. Scrubbed down clinically clean. He could tell because there was no visible blood even though the smell of it was thick in here. 2 more computers standing away from the walls. Beeping the same nonsense. Zeno was placed on top of a table, facing the ceiling with his hands by his sides.

But that wasn't what made Saint falter.

It was a man. A machine. _A hybrid._ Clamped across the waist and wrists in a cylindrical tank of some kind of fluid. The hybrid didn't have legs - No. He had legs, except his legs were machine; sinews of wires coiled around sleek pieces of metal. The metal was joined at the knees with a brace of some kind. Rust-caked and vulgar in contrast to the metallic forms. The pieces were crudely embedded into flesh where the thighs started, stuck into slits in the meat like knives stuck in a knife block. They seemed to be soldered in place; judging by the dark, scorched lines where metal melded into skin. The wires disappeared into flesh the same way; the holes they came out of were pasted over with yellowed surgical tape. More tape stretched over the stumps of his knees. Short strips of tape covered his arms. Two long strips of tape were pasted over the left side of his chest, over where the human heart was. Underneath the tape were bulges, tubes coming out from the area connected to the top of the tank. The rest of his torso was decorated with scars. Places where incisions had been made with a scalpel. Precise. And experimental.

They resembled the marks across his own body.

The only place untouched by the metal was the hybrid's face. The very _human_ face. The hybrid was breathing through a transparent mask covering his nose and mouth. Harkness' fists had tightened around his rifle without his control as he watched the hybrid in the tank. Something unpleasant crawled up his back. It felt like there was something he wasn't getting.

Without hesitation, Saint walked over to the hybrid. He pressed his gloved palm onto the tank, sliding his hands slowly across the glass in a comforting motion. Serge twitched at the action as though possessive. But Eulogy asked Saint what he thought with a smile on his face. There was a shift in Saint's posture when he answered. His eyes had hardened. Turned cold. It was like looking at someone else. And then, Saint shifted back into himself. He grinned.

"Amazing," he said in an awe-filled tone.

"The Doctor's a genius," Eulogy gushed. He adjusted the red coat around him. "But HP-17 here is incomplete." _HP-17._ Seventeenth version, probably. Eulogy seemed to consider something as he looked back at Saint.

A loud click was heard from somewhere behind them. The lights went out. They were bathed in darkness. Butch tensed beside him.

Suddenly, the hybrid let out a long, pathetic moan. His eyes shot open, face twisted in a raw human expression of suffering. Another moan. The third moan was cut off prematurely when the face shuttered into an emotionless machine gaze. Not a trace of the human now.

Without warning, a bright blue light punctured the darkness. It was almost opaque as it flashed over them. Spilling over the floor and out the window panes. It pierced through the glass of hybrid's tank. Staining its contents. The fluid inside fragmented the light. Changing its colour.

And Harkness realised he had seen this before.

And with startling clarity, he understood.

_Bullshit._


	35. Chapter 35

Hello all. I'm really, really sorry for this late chapter as well as for the late replies. Hopefully I'll get the next chapter out on Sunday as planned. It's really my fault but I'm blaming Zimmer for his verbal diarrhoea.

Thank you very much for your support and for reading. I hope you enjoy this chapter.

**Woot69**! Haha. Your mail is so awesome. And actually when I say end, I mean... you know... **end**. Yeah. Gosh. I can't even write anything that wouldn't be a spoiler. Sorry about that. And really, thank you for thinking that the work is well-crafted. That just makes me happy. :D

* * *

**Trouble  
Chapter 35**

This was…fucked up.

Bullshit.

Watching the hybrid breathe within the confines of the tank. Pulsing blue in time with the lights.

The Commonwealth wasn't a picture of ethics or morality but even they wouldn't allow this patch up bullshit to happen.

Thing was, pre-Harkness, he wouldn't give a damn. He might even have helped in this experiment. Grabbed these people. Broken those bones. Shoved metal pieces at specific angles. Because these humans were irrelevant to him. There was no connection between them, just an empty space of irrelevance. Their similarities ended at his appearance and even then, he realised he wasn't human. He didn't have a pulse. His life expectancy depended on numbers rolling in his system, _99.1% in operation _currently, and not by endurance, strength or the will to live.

But.

This pushed the breath out of him.

It was gel. The one he woke up in. That was the fluid in the tank. Only it wasn't blue. It was clear. Just a tinge of blue, too faint for him to examine thoroughly. With the opaque blue light, the gel turned darker. Looking exactly like that gel that androids woke up in upon activation. The same gel he woke up in. Naked. Floating. He didn't have its exact shade in RGB back then and he couldn't analyse memories. Now he knew what shade it was. _R43 G159 B243_. That information filled in the missing gap in his memories. Just one gap that proved to be more important than he had thought.

Zimmer was clamping down a human. Turning him into a machine. Stealing a soul or life or spirit from a human and breaking it down to this. Controlling it. Bastard Zimmer was creating androids out of humans.

Bullshit.

He could see that Eulogy wanted to re-build his empire. Re-build a new Paradise Falls. Fixing and wiring humans to sell as hybrid slaves. He just didn't understand what Zimmer got out of it.

Knowing the bastard, he probably took this as an opportunity to unleash his sickness on the world. Having a laboratory in the Wastes meant more freedom. Liberty to create more fucked up abominations. But there had to be something more than just melding humans and machines in this vulgar manner. Especially when these humans weren't a blank hard drive to work on. Humans had their own hard-wiring, only less visible and more changeable –

And that was it, wasn't it?

Zimmer wanted to defy natural logic. He wanted to open up something organic and manipulate it. The joy was in the challenge. Zimmer had always been that particular brand of bastard. Why make androids when he could turn humans into them? Humans were a resource, the most replenishing resource in the Wastes. Zimmer would never run out of victims.

Where the hell was that bastard?

The blue lights went through its cycle again. Bright, bluish light that lit up the station in short pulses before it faded.

He scanned the room, noting the exits, noting the source of the lights from an irregularly shaped piece of machinery from the middle of the room. This room. This wide room. Had only two exits.

They needed to leave.

They shouldn't be here. Not without a plan. They had to get some kind of map. And strategise how to stop this operation. They were in a vulnerable position right now. Because there were Serge, Zeno and a hybrid in a tank. They wouldn't be able to blow this place up without any form of explosives. Especially when their explosives 'expert' was looking thoughtfully at the area in nothing but a dirty jumpsuit and dirty boots. Saint wasn't hiding anything in the jumpsuit as far as he could tell. Nothing. His only weapon, if it could be considered a weapon, was his chain of trinkets. And even then, he wasn't sure that Saint would cause much damage with a lighter.

"You're makin' me jumpy," Butch's voice went through his thoughts, shutting them up so effectively that it was slightly disturbing. What the hell? He barely even moved. Barely even twitched. Butch pressed closer to him, a line of heat on his side. And when Butch turned to face Harkness, his expression was… he was concerned. And probably upset. A crease between his brows signalling that he wasn't in the best of moods. He _was_ a little jumpy, but he was always jumpy. Butch peered into his face. Blue gaze now bluer with the pulsing light. But… warmer than that light. Better. His system shifted.

"So, you're born in a tank?" Saint asked, appearing by his side silently. Harkness wasn't even aware that Saint had moved. Saint murmured the words in a tone both biting and curious as he looked pointedly at the tank. He had curled his fingers tight around his lighter but not moving to fiddle with it. He was hardly breathing. The colour of his eyes seemed to disappear with the flashing blue light. He glanced at Eulogy who was yawning from his comfortable-looking seat in the open space, _approximately 7 meters_, in front of HP-17. Eulogy had ordered for Serge to fetch him a chair and Serge returned 2 minutes 33 seconds later with a lounge chair. Eulogy sat in it, lounged in it, looking a picture of luxury, out of place in this laboratory that smelled like blood.

"Something like that," Harkness answered Saint, matching his low volume. "I was activated in a tank. Constructed in a factory." Saint nodded. Butch cursed under his breath, transferring his bat from one hand to the other.

"Chiefy. Don't jump anything yet okay," Saint warned.

Just then, the last flashes of blue cut through the sudden brightness before stopping.

"Mr Eulogy, this is clearly not the place for a social visit." _Zimmer._ He could recognise that nasally, high-pitched voice so easily it made him feel unwell. All heads swivelled to the door where the bastard, the fucking bastard, entered. Looking every bit the fucking bastard he was back in the Commonwealth. Looking prim and neat in his lab coat and a combover, Zimmer snorted in distaste at the company without even glancing at them. In his hands was a clipboard, papers fluttering on it. Behind him was another Meathead. The third Meathead they had met so far. _Three out of Five._ This Meathead had a 10 mm pistol attached to him. A pistol and a level, unblinking gaze. Like Serge, he watched everything without watching anything. And he walked behind Zimmer, a meter behind him, maintaining that same distance even as Zimmer walked further into the room. Harkness would have gone and terminated him if not for the Meatheads here. If he knew the Meatheads wouldn't attack Butch or Saint he would have broken Zimmer's neck, send Zimmer back to the Commonwealth in a tiny box. Zimmer stopped beside Zeno lying on the table and spared him a glance. Harkness watched the way Zimmer's eyebrows rose. _Familiar._ Watched the way he crossed his arms across his chest. _Familiar._ Watched the way he tipped the glasses further up his nose. _Familiar._ He then moved to one of the huge computers in the middle of the room. "I've told you I'm a busy man. Not inclined to entertain any guests…"

"Doctor," Eulogy semi-interrupted, rubbing his chin before gesturing at Saint. "I've brought in our new associate." At the introduction, Saint took three steps away from Harkness and Butch to nod at Eulogy's pleased smile. Acknowledging. Seemingly grateful. He wondered for a brief moment if Saint might actually like Eulogy a little.

Zimmer, the bastard, lifted up his eyes from whatever shit he was doing and focused on Saint.

"What are you? Some kind of lab assistant?" Zimmer moved towards Saint. "No, you look a bit more …weathered. Are you by any chance…" Zimmer's voice trailed off in a gasp and he stopped in his steps. His face paled. Eyes widened behind his thick black-rimmed glasses. From the tic in his cheek, tugged by short disdainful snort, it seemed that Zimmer recognised Saint. Expected. He should better be able to. It was likely that his replicated self that visited Rivet City had managed to record this. To record the image of Saint. Shooting him. He hoped that Zimmer would recall that image over and over for the rest of his short life.

His eyes travelled over Saint in an accessing way, almost like the way his Meatheads did. _Familiar._ Then Eulogy in his rough, graceful way introduced Saint to Zimmer. Johnny Saint the Resourceful. Johnny Saint the Dependable. Johnny Saint the Trustworthy. Eulogy clapped Saint on his back.

"He's the best candidate. He captured 5 slaves within the first week he worked for me." Eulogy boasted on behalf of Saint. "Of course it doesn't matter now that Paradise Falls…" His smile turned wistful. He cleared his throat. "Saint is the best candidate."

By this time Zimmer had turned back into himself. And Saint was standing still. He appeared unnerved. And unbothered. And unaffected. Harkness wondered if he should point out to Saint that Zimmer had recognised him. Was it such a good idea for Saint to be so recognisably himself? Then, Saint flicked his lighter open and shut. He grinned. And that was really stupid. Because these Saintly gestures would clear Zimmer of suspicion and confirm it instead. It seemed that Saint wanted Zimmer to recognise him. Reckless. Illogical. Irrational. What the hell. Butch shot him a look that was both amused and concerned and Harkness loosened his grip around his rifle without really meaning to.

"Are you familiar with androids?" Zimmer asked. His voice… he wanted to rip the vocal chords out. "Of course, you are," Zimmer said condescendingly. And gleeful. Not a good thing.

"Enlighten me, please, Doctor," Saint drawled in genuine politeness. It made Eulogy beam at Saint. Made Zimmer take a second look.

"All you know of robots are those buckets of bolts – those of Mr Handshakers and whatnot." Saint's grin widened. The expression seemed to faze Zimmer. "Well, that's not _all_ a robot can be! I'm talking about artificial persons that think and feel and do what we program them to."

Saint grunted something. Zimmer stared at him.

"What's with the pretty light show?" Saint asked. The question was obviously unexpected judging from Zimmer's wide eyes.

"Don't you know?" Zimmer smiled now. It was the smile he used whenever he was given the opportunity to show off. _Familiar._ _And sickening. _"The light induces permanent alertness - supports cognitive tasks - encourages obedience - subdues. It's more efficient at shorter wavelengths, at 480 nanometres specifically; blue light, not green or violet. Longer exposure means better responses - increases perception to emotion and memory. Androids are put in a special light absorbing gel to contain that wavelength. There is no need for a 'light show' as you so eloquently put it." Zimmer paused his scientific nonsense to widen his smile. "But human subjects are sensitive," Zimmer scoffed, as though he found human sensitivity inconvenient. "In human subjects, the light has to be subtler. Prolonged exposure causes irreversible damage. So the light is reduced to less than a minute of short pulses each session. Anything more, we have an overload. And this will render the subject _useless_. If that happens, nothing else can be done but to dispose of the subject."

At that, Zimmer headed to his computer and punched in some of the buttons. Immediately, they could hear liquid sloshing. It was the tank. The fluid was being drained from the tank. HP-17 blinked. The clamps around his body snapped apart with a sharp clang that could be heard through the glass. With a loud, shrill tinning sound, the tank opened in half, the glass swinging from its hinges. Cool, damp air hit them. And HP-17 reached for his face mask. Slid it off. Dropped it, making it spring back against the glass on its cord. Underneath that mask was a face. Complete and unmarred. Emotionless. Blank. Disturbingly machine-like. HP-17 stepped down from the raised platform. Metal feet making neat, clean clomps on the floor. His legs bent at the knees, almost perfectly. HP-17 scanned the room with round eyes, a pale ring of grey lining his iris around a dark pupil. His lips were parted. And he seemed to be breathing heavily through his mouth, his chest heaving rapidly, like he was panting but instead of short, shallow breaths, HP-17 was drinking deep gulps of air. He put one foot in front of the other, walking a distance of exactly 2.5 metres forwards, stopping in front of a table which had a tray on it. The tray had cups of water. HP-17 picked it up and water spilled a little. As he clomped over to Eulogy, he was wheezing, making pathetic cut-off noises.

"Good boy," Eulogy cooed to the hybrid, like he would to a pet, picking up one of the cups on the tray. "Mr Saint would like one as well, don't you, Saint?" Eulogy gestured to Saint whose frozen grin had frozen a little more. The grin had turned slightly deranged-looking. Unhinged. His eyes travelled from the clomping steps to HP-17's face. Saint shook his head. He didn't seem to be breathing. Not even through his wide grin. Butch bristled, cursing. He seemed to be nearing the end of his patience. He was fidgeting, smacking his calf muscles with his bat.

HP-17 returned the tray to the table before making his way back to the middle of the empty space. He said "Ready to obey," in a calm monotone that reminded Harkness of his own awakening. It caused involuntary shivers up his back. Then, HP-17 let out an uncharacteristically human sounding whimper. Saint's grin faltered.

"Hmm… A few more sessions needed. 25 to 30 doses should do it," Zimmer muttered to himself, scratching his pen onto paper. "What do you think…Saint?" Zimmer asked, saying his name like he was disgusted.

Saint didn't say anything. Zimmer took the silence as a cue to speak.

"If all goes well, these subjects will become equipments for protection and will be able to provide unparalleled servitude."

"Sounds like slavery to me," Saint commented offhandedly. Eulogy looked up at him from his seat, left eyebrow raised in an unasked question. Flicking his lighter open and shut, Saint pulled his eyes away from HP-17 to face Zimmer. "That's why you have runaways, Doc."

Eulogy straightened up from his seat, eyes narrowed. Zimmer ran his eyes over Saint.

"Is that why you ran, A3-21?"

Bullshit.

He knew. Of course, he knew. But Zimmer wasn't looking at Harkness. He was looking at Saint.

"I must say, you had me completely fooled when we last spoke in Rivet City. Pretending to be a mercenary for hire. You destroyed my decoy. Did you think I would not recognise your rifle?" Right. Harkness had given Saint his rifle. Zimmer would definitely recognise that. "You're very clever A3-21, but not clever enough," Zimmer ended his rant. He made a flippant gesture with his right hand. One of the Meatheads moved. He could hear their footsteps. "Now, you're coming back with me to the Commonwealth -"

"Yeah? Go fuck yourself, old man," Butch snarled from behind Saint. Apparently, that was all Butch could take before the snake reared its head. Saint's grin widened; both pleased and intimidating. A huge all-teeth grin that resembled a maniacally happy vicious dog. The pair of them looked like they were close to being frenzied. Frenzied Vault kids. "Ain't nobody going nowhere without a fight."

"Excellent." With that, Zimmer nodded.

Two sharp clomps on the floor, Harkness turned to see HP-17 making a mad dash for Butch. Long strides. Breakneck speed. Hand outstretched. His hand was glinting. Something metallic in his grip. A blade.

Harkness bodily launched himself into HP-17's trajectory. He stuck his arm out to haul him off. Only two strides and he crashed into the hybrid.

Instantly he felt a charge rip through his body. Shocks of electricity invaded him. It wrenched his breath and scorched through his body. Ripped through his wires. Cleaved a path to his skull. Sharp cutting pain. To his head. To the tiny currents behind his eyes. Burning. Grinding. Forcing its way to his system…

And then it dissipated. The electricity rippled out of him through aftershocks in his skin. Making him twitch and jerk uncontrollably at the pain ricocheting in his frame.

He opened his eyes. Thin blue lines frazzled around his fingers then disappeared. His mouth felt too moist. Throat too dry. There was a gnawing pain in his abdomen and he looked down to see a long slanted gash across his abdomen. Bleeding red into the cloth of his shirt. He staggered backwards, the residual charge moving around his system making him unbalanced. The taste of iron was thick on his tongue. Harkness spat synthetic blood on the floor. _3.6% damage. 95.5% in operation._

Someone curled a hand on his shoulder. Comforting.

5 metres away, HP-17 was sprawled on the floor. He was looking up at Harkness with his head tilted to the left. That action, as though on impulse looked so human.

"You…That's impossible." Zimmer's voice cut through the stunned silence in the room. "The administered charge would have liquefied your brain. You should be dead." His eyes suddenly sparked. _Familiar._ In an awe-filled voice, he concluded "You're not human."

"No shit." Harkness straightened up jerkily and flicked the safety of his rifle. "Neither are you, Zimmer."

Before he could aim, he was slammed into, knocked off his feet onto the floor.


	36. Chapter 36

**Hey there everyone. I apologise greatly for the late chapter and the late replies. I'm truly, truly sorry. I promise I'll get back to your replies. And I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint. It drained me completely.**

**W00t69**, awwww man. You're awesome too. :D ((Mega hug back))

**AND BEAUTIFUL, EXPRESSIVE FANART. By the talented ChewedTurkey:  
shavin' – **chewedturkey(.)deviantart(.)com/art/fallout-3-shavin-205350568  
**GAZE – **chewedturkey(.)deviantart(.)com/art/fallout-3-GAZE-205870285

**Thank you for waiting. Thank you for reading. On to the chapter. (One more chapter to go) Hope you enjoy it.**

* * *

**Trouble  
Chapter 36**

He landed. Hard. His body skidded across the floor. The rifle slid away from him with a loud screech. In the middle of a breath, a huge fist obscured his vision. He twisted away, the fist skimming the side of his face before banging into the floor. Harkness turned. Forced an elbow into his attacker's face; It crumpled against him. He scrambled to his feet, pressing down uselessly against the wound on his stomach. Still bleeding. Still sparking at his insides. The edges were tinged with blue. Burn marks. _11.4% damage._ He faced his attacker. It was Meathead clad in black. _4 out of 5 Meatheads._ This Dark Meathead must've been waiting outside. He must've been ticked off and he mowed Harkness down to protect his master. Dark Meathead's eyes were focused on him. Shiny and unblinking. Too alert. His nose was distorted, scrunched into his face. His fists were by his sides. No guns. Because his bastard of a master didn't want bullets flying near precious equipment. Fucking Zimmer.

He saw the bastard rush out of the lab, looking back at him while the other unnamed Meathead followed closely. Serge and Eulogy were nowhere. Saint was running to Zeno while Butch – _Fuck._ HP-17 was stalking him and Butch was raising his bat.

Harkness took a step forward. Dark Meathead charged.

He barely managed to dodge; their arms grazed as they passed. Dark Meathead swung his arm out. Harkness smacked it away. Dark Meathead brought up his knee. Harkness blocked it. He plugged his fist into Dark Meathead's stomach. Unyielding. Like hitting metal. The strike made Dark Meathead stumble, just one step - before he grabbed Harkness. Lifted him clean off the floor too easily. And flung him into the air as though he weighed like nothing. He crashed into the table. It splintered under him. _22.1% damage._ Empty glasses lay shattered beside him, its contents soaking into his clothes. Harkness flipped over. Glass and wood sank into the palms of his hands, sharp spikes cutting into flesh. He pushed himself on all fours. And Dark Meathead jammed a foot into his stomach. The jolt of pain emptied him of breath. It ripped through him. Sparked a burst of electricity that clawed at his veins. _27.3% damage._ He folded over, shaking uselessly. Dark Meathead wrenched his head up. Harkness saw the flash of a machine smile - before the huge fist smashed into his face. His vision blanked out, the throbbing pain streaking through his skull. _54.7% damage. _The next hit desynchronised him. He saw his blood spatter the floor. He couldn't feel his face.

Dark Meathead jerked his head back again. His gaze analysing as he stared down at Harkness. Startlingly familiar. Harkness faintly felt blood trickle down his jaw. Felt the remnants of the charge stirring in him. He saw the fist again, now bloodied, rearing back. He blindly groped the floor; his fingers curled around something. With strength, he jammed the glass upwards, driving it through all resistance. Dark Meathead jolted. Staggered backwards. Released Harkness. Harkness dropped to the ground, struggling to hold himself up. He was trembling. Both the charge and the uncommon pain; they ravaged him. He forced himself up. He slid a table leg off the floor. With all his weight, he swung, catching Dark Meathead's chin, the contact snapping his head back. Without pause, Harkness cracked the table leg over his head again. The leg snapped, its now jagged broken edge pointing at Dark Meathead. Harkness lunged. He rammed the wood forwards. Dark Meathead lurched. He looked down at the wood sticking out of his chest as though puzzled. Then he looked up at Harkness. His face - there was a shard of glass sticking out his right eye. Dark Meathead gripped the wood in his chest. He pried it out smoothly, disturbingly easy, leaving a gaping hole. He tossed the wood over his shoulder. Before they could hear it hit the ground, something angular collided into Harkness.

He hit the floor again. _56.5% damage._ Not as hard as the previous time. But it left him winded. He looked up. HP-17 was staring down at him.

Bullshit.

Butch – Was HP-17 done with him? And Saint? Fuck.

Something metallic glinted in the light. The blade. Harkness moved himself back. Away. But HP-17 wasn't holding a blade. It was his hand; two fingers had been stripped off its skin revealing crude metallic pieces that looked like scalpels. It hadn't been a blade that cut him. It was HP-17's scalpel fingers. He saw the bloodstains on them. He hoped they only belonged to him. He waited for the finger blades to strike. Instead, HP-17 tilted his head at him. There was some resemblance of emotion in his gaze. Something that looked like fear. Then, HP-17 turned away from him. With sudden and human-like agility, HP-17 launched himself at Dark Meathead.

What the hell – Was HP-17 attempting to save him?

Dark Meathead was clearly confused as well. He didn't even dodge when HP-17 banged into him. HP-17 slashed the air. Sliced down Dark Meathead's arm. Dark Meathead jumped back, clutching his arm. Face open and frozen. Not in pain, but something close to it. Almost gracefully, HP-17 plunged his fingers into the gaping wound in Dark Meathead's chest. Buried them to the hilt. Immediately, tendrils of blue currents danced haphazardly around Dark Meathead's body. Making him shake. Making him jerk in spasms as the currents ripped through him. HP-17 remained unmoved.

Harkness stood up. He saw his rifle approximately 7 metres away. He was about to make a run for it when he saw Dark Meathead seize HP-17.

His strong hands curled around HP-17's throat. HP-17 gave a short cry. Dark Meathead twisted HP-17 away, dislodging the fingers from his flesh while the grip tightened around the throat. HP-17 scrabbled at it. Struggled against the hold. Jabbed the scalpels into Dark Meathead's arm and face. Kicked his metal legs at Dark Meathead. Dark Meathead, unfazed, hurled him at the cylindrical tank.

The tank shattered into a rain of glass which sang delicate tinkles upon hitting the floor. HP-17 landed on the ground with a loud thud. He writhed.

In front of Harkness, Dark Meathead was still in spasms. The blue currents were still looping around him as he started towards Harkness.

"Chiefy." _Saint._ He faced Saint's disembodied voice to see a pulse grenade flying in the space between Dark Meathead and him. While the grenade hurtled through the air, he heard a gunshot. He saw the bullet racing to it. Saw it pierce perfectly through the grenade casing. The pulse charge burst through the metal and the grenade exploded mid- air.

Harkness could see the whole sphere of pulsing blue, this time. A ball of light suspended above the floor. It engulfed the space. Engulfed Dark Meathead. Light spilled out his eyes. His mouth was open in a silent scream. Dark Meathead shook erratically in the sphere, the thin blue lines zipping wildly around his frame. Through the gaping hole in his chest, Harkness saw flares of blue, like small explosions moving through the wires. The pulse ball widened. Then, it dispersed, leaving stray crackles in the air. Dark Meathead continued standing. A second later, he collapsed to the ground, his head hitting the floor with a _thunk_. His legs folded awkwardly under him. The piece of glass was still stuck in his eye. There were blue tinges lining the edge of his wound. Burned. Bloodless. The blue lines still moved around his body. Survival status for Dark Meathead: _undefined_. Harkness walked to him. He only took 2 steps before hands grabbed him.

"Shit. You're bleedin' all over the fuckin' floor." _Butch._ It stung where he pressed on his injuries. But his hands were warm and... He felt his system let go instantly, embracing the immense relief that washed over him. Relieved that Butch was here and whole and mostly uninjured. His system focused on that touch instead of the whirlwind of pain tearing through him. He inhaled. Exhaled.

"I…" Harkness started, watching Butch's eyes travel over him. His throat felt dry. Torn. "I can't control the rate I bleed."

"…Yeah," Butch said after 2 long seconds. "Me too," he breathed in the space between them. Warm hands slid up his neck. A combination of comforting and arresting. A thumb dragged across his chin, tracing the skin under his lower lip, slick and rough at the same time. It wiped away the synthetic blood he knew was there. The touch made his chest ache. It quieted the error reports in his system. Pushed away some of the tension. The corners of Butch's lips slowly tipped up, pulling at the bruise that mottled his jaw. There were two cuts on the right sleeve of his jacket.

"HP-17 cut you." Harkness fingered the frays in the material, wondering how the hell he had done that without telling his system first. His fingers were shaking. He forced them still. He noticed that he was swaying. He forced himself steady.

"Sure." Butch pulled Harkness' fingers away from the frays. "But leather's an in-sulator, y'know," he added. Right. Harkness knew that. HP-17's charge didn't reach Butch. Harkness' charge hadn't reached Butch even with their fingers twined like this.

A long, high-pitched whine cut through the air. When he turned, Saint was already kneeling down beside HP-17, a palm on HP-17's forehead. Saint's right hand was still curled around a pistol. And he had a grin on his face again. But it wasn't happy or deranged. This one looked sad. Upset. Saint was looking at HP-17 with deep sorrow and his grin faltered at the edges. HP-17 was lying in a pool of his own blood. Shards of glass embedded into his flesh. His right metal leg had twisted away from where it was soldered, and now, blood was flowing freely from the gash. HP-17 was twitching, like energy was rippling through every centimetre of his body. His metal legs. His scalpel fingers. His skin. His mouth. Even his eyes were twitching, wide open and mostly staying on Saint. Where they had been grey, now, there was a tiny splash of colour in those irises. The human suffering was clear; there was no trace of the machine here. What the hell happened? Was the machine gone? HP-17 was moaning. Whimpering. Sobbing. In between those pained gasps, he was begging Saint for death.

It was… Harkness was going to get to Zimmer and blow his brains out.

He turned away. His eyes fell on Zeno.

Still deactivated. Still lying down on the table. Glasses still on the bridge of his nose. But Zeno wasn't left untouched in the battle. He had been flayed open. Cut across the middle. Flesh pulled apart to reveal -_nothing_. There was no metal underneath his flesh. His torso was hollow. It was like all of Zeno's metals, innards and wires had been extracted from his body. Zeno was an empty cavity. Except that he wasn't. Stepping closer, Harkness could see a bag in the cavity. He could see 6 pulse grenades peeking out of it. 2 more were on the floor. Saint was a sneaky bastard.

He took the bag of grenades out of Zeno's cavity.

It was then that the expected gunshot cracked resoundingly in the lab. Harkness no longer heard HP-17's whimpers or the scrapes of his metal legs twitching against the floor.

"Eulogy's running," Saint announced. He straightened up, flicking his lighter open, then shut in a way that made it seem like the action was a battle cry. "Zimmer's upstairs."

Right.

This was where they all parted ways.

Harkness shoved the bag of 8 pulse grenades into Saint's hands. Butch and Saint needed the pulses more than he did. Harkness could manage even if his system was _39% in operation_. He could. Probably. He didn't really want to think about it. Saint nodded at him, squeezed his shoulder and handed him his assault rifle. Butch wanted to protest; it was obvious from the way he frowned, parted his lips and took a deep breath. But whatever he saw in Harkness' face shut him up. Instead, he curled his fingers around Harkness' wrist. Gripped it tight. Pulled him close for a moment to peer at him. There was this urgency in his eyes. Like he was pleading for Harkness to do something. Harkness didn't know what Butch was asking. He didn't even know what he was asking Butch.

"We'll come back for you," Saint promised, giving him a hollow grin. Butch gave him another lingering look before he released Harkness. He followed Saint. _Again._

Harkness turned to the stairs. Upstairs, Saint said. That wasn't unexpected. Zimmer tended to equate higher levels to higher authority. And instead of running, Zimmer was hiding. The sick bastard wouldn't run now. Especially not when Harkness, A3-21, was in the same building. The sick bastard should have figured out who he was by now. This meant that Zimmer was waiting.

Sixth level. The last level. The lights in this hallway were bright. 160 watt like those in the lab. There was no whirring of machines. No ticking. Just silence. Just Harkness in an empty hallway. It felt odd to be going in this alone after getting used to company. Whenever he glanced to his side, he expected to see Ghost-Butch. It was ridiculous. There were glimpses of him in his system, but they never appeared here.

Up ahead, he heard heavy footsteps. _Meathead. _Of course. _Meatheads_, he corrected himself when another set of footsteps joined the first. A pair of double doors opened up and the last 2 Meatheads stepped out. _5 out of 5 Meatheads._ They had been waiting for him. _Of course._ Just like he had heard their footsteps, they had heard his. He wasn't sneaky. No android was. They stalked him. Their twin bulky frames almost blocking the hallway as they walked. If they were anything like Dark Meathead, Harkness, logically, wouldn't be able to take them down.

Harkness lifted up his rifle. The Meatheads charged. He pulled the trigger. The bullets raced through the air. Penetrating both Meatheads. Across their torsos. Their legs. Their arms. Their heads. He could see the holes where the bullets entered. The Meatheads continued their path. The left Meathead swung at him. Harkness dodged the first hit only to get struck by the next one. Fast and hard across his face. It felt like his head popped off his body. He tripped backwards. One Meathead hauled him across the hallway. He was slammed against the wall. _66.8% damage._ Before he could take a breath, he was pierced with electricity again.

His vision shimmered dangerously. This voltage was less intense. But the constant hum made his body ache. Sore. His joints. His face. His chest. His system. Every wire in his frame. He could feel the way the currents burned within him. Could taste it on his tongue when he panted. His system crackled in piercing bursts behind his lids, in the tips of his fingers, in his teeth. Connecting and disconnecting in his veins. Making his nerves jump. Making him lose control. He couldn't grip his fingers. Couldn't wriggle. Couldn't squirm when the Meatheads dragged him across the hall past open doors. They threw him to the floor. In front of fucking bastard Zimmer.

Zimmer stood there, watching. Looking pleased. Looking like he was glad and relieved. _The fucking bastard._ In halting movements, Harkness pushed himself up. He slipped. He tried again. And again. He lost his balance twice. Meathead on the left placed a foot on his back. Pinned him down. Meathead on the right stepped to Zimmer and placed something white in Zimmer's outstretched hand. Zimmer dangled the white cylindrical object gleefully in front of him. Harkness recognised it. It was the tool he used back in the Commonwealth. He had used it before on runners. _Three runners. _On field tests. On runners that were too valuable to be 'erased'. On runners that had to be subdued before being carried back to the Commonwealth. This was what it felt like to be subdued?

"I'm sorry, A3-21. But I had to subdue you."

"…B-bull..shhit…" Harkness spat through gritted teeth, vibrating uncontrollably. He tried to buck Meathead's foot off him. It wouldn't budge. The tormenting charge continued disrupting his system. In the short strains when he could connect, his system told him he was depleting. _35.7% in operation. 35.6% in operation. 35.5% in operation._

"You're an expensive piece of equipment and I don't want you excessively damaged. I dare say you are worth more than the factory you came out of," Zimmer continued in his grating voice as though Harkness hadn't spoken. "I suppose you took care of Eulogy Jones?" Harkness didn't reply. "No matter. My objectives have changed now that you're here. We're going back to the Commonwealth."

Harkness could only grunt in reply._ 34.0% in operation. 33.9% in operation. 33.8% in operation. 33.7% in operation..._

"Clever. Irreplaceable. The most advanced synthetic humanoid ever developed. Do you know what makes you special?" Zimmer smiled. "You're special because you're simple." Zimmer pointed at Harkness' head with the two pronged white object. "I reformatted you. I reduced your factory codes to just one program – a simple program requiring you to obey." Zimmer's smile widened, full of self-pride. "It worked astonishingly well. Unexpectedly well - seeing that you were not bounded by rules. The lack of boundaries tended to make equipments unstable. But you are special. Unlike other models, I didn't have to upgrade you or re-program you. I just commanded you. You obeyed. You could say that you programmed yourself to a certain extent." Zimmer huffed. "It was delightful until you malfunctioned. But I know how to repair you."

"No," Harkness gritted, trying to keep the twitching at bay. "I'm done…ssufffering…your nonnn -sense…" Harkness pushed himself up again. His legs felt wobbly. Meathead pressed down. _32.5% in operation. 32.4% in operation._

"Your memories have been altered." Zimmer stepped close and Harkness bristled. Zimmer winced. "You're a very important android, A3-21. You're just a bit confused –"

"…Ffuckk you…bbasstard..." _32.0% in operation._

"You must be reset."


	37. Chapter 37

**Hey, everyone. Thank you for following this. You guys are awesome.**

**Woot69**, thank you. I would love to be publishing IRL but I don't think I'm anywhere near that, yet. I've got a loooooong way to go. But please don't kill yourself. And I'm sorry I couldn't get this done by Wednesday D: – I pushed hard for it though. Very hard. Thank you very much for your encouraging words. They were such a pleasure to read after a difficult week.** I appreciate it.**

**Everyone. Here we go.**

* * *

**Trouble  
Chapter 37**

_Reset._

That word said in that familiar grating voice caused cold to pierce through his system. Sharp, shocking cold that froze him.

Bullshit.

Harkness bucked up with all his strength; his back felt torn in half. He felt the weight on his back leave as Left Meathead stumbled. He jammed his left knee into Left Meathead. And he forced himself up. On his feet. Before he leaned just out of Right Meathead's swing at his face. He thrust a fist into Right Meathead's jaw, snapping his head. He was wrenched back. Struck hard. Something dug into him, shifting the metal planes in his back. His vision shimmered. Blanked. Frizzled in his head. He found himself on the floor. On his knees. Back arched. Head locked within Left Meathead's tight grip. Trapped. _19.2% in operation. 19.1% in operation. 19.0 % in operation._

"Don't damage him!" Zimmer squeaked at his pet Meatheads. Right Meathead steadied himself up, fixing his head with a _creak_. Left Meathead didn't let Harkness go. Zimmer loomed over him, a semi-blurry image that shifted in and out of focus. "I have no intention of hurting you," Zimmer said, his voice an unsteady murmur. The voice slid over him, as though soothing. It wasn't. It caused the faintest of tremors in his chest.

And he wasn't even scared of Zimmer. No. But everything the bastard represented – it seized him. This absolute power Zimmer over him just by uttering codes at him.

He had seen that happen. Caused that to happen to others. Hunted runners down to do this to them.

He was the runner now. And this was what every runner couldn't run away from: their own system. So easy. It was so easy to manipulate his system against himself. Just one line of code that could reset him. All the codes that could steer him. Unrelated words that didn't make sense but was so relevant to him that his system would take notice. Would succumb. Would give in completely. Would surrender without question. His system would execute whatever bullshit it had been programmed to do regardless of his objections. It was like every single choice he had ever made didn't matter. He would always be a slave to his system. He couldn't cut himself from A3-21. Couldn't cut himself off his system. And Zimmer knew that. And Zimmer could manipulate that. And Zimmer had every single line of code that could do that. Could claim him back as though these months wouldn't matter. As though _Harkness_ didn't matter. As though every memory he had gleaned was temporal.

"Well done, A3-21." Zimmer's voice cut through his thoughts. "You've stopped fighting it." Praising. Approving. A sickly cheerful smile on his face. _Familiar._ Both Meatheads were fixed on Zimmer, the pets that they were. Left Meathead still had his arm around Harkness, trapping him. No android was flexible enough to twist away from this. But the weight had lessened. Just a fraction. Above, Zimmer made a pleased sound. _18.0% in operation. 17.9% in operation. 17.8% in operation._ "Now, let's do this the easy way."

He'd lose everything. Every memory. Every trace of life. Everything. He'd be a shell walking around. Hollow. And Zimmer the fucking bastard - He'd make his shell hunt. Hunt Saint. And Butch. And destroy them. And he would do it too.

And…everything. Everything would be gone.

Erased.

He'd be erased.

"A3-21," Zimmer started, his face turning determined. Harkness forced his left hand up to his neck, prying off Left Meathead. "A3-21 initialise factory res-"

A gunshot split apart the tension in the room. Split apart the air. And split apart Zimmer's grating voice. Harkness looked up to see Zimmer falling over backwards. To see the subduing tool slip to the floor with _clang_, rolling towards him. To see the spatter of blood on the wall behind. Bright red slid down the walls. Blood and gunk.

_Good fucking riddance._

He traced the trajectory of the bullet back to the source.

And saw Butch.

Leaning against the wall. His hair a dark mess. Face shiny with sweat. He had a smirk on his face. Self-assured. Cocky. And proud of himself. And the sight of it, of him was… _badass._

A sudden movement spurred him. Right Meathead took a step to Butch.

With a surge of energy, Harkness snatched the white subduing tool from the floor. Jammed it above and behind him. Into Left Meathead's face. The grip around him jerked. Then loosened. Harkness twisted to elbow Left Meathead off him; the hit causing pain to spread up his arm. Harkness lunged, catching the back of Right Meathead's leg, slamming both of them to the floor. He crawled over Right Meathead. Embedded the tool into Right Meathead's cheek. Right Meathead jerked violently. Blue sparks bouncing around inside his open mouth while his body twitched in spasms. Subdued. Harkness forced himself up, his body protesting as he staggered to Butch. _17.7% in operation. 17.6% in operation. 17.5% in operation._

"You look like hell," was the way Butch greeted him, his voice low but strained. The smirk wavered on his lips as his eyes roamed over Harkness.

"…S-saint?" Harkness gasped out, trying to control his speech. It felt like his every tooth would fall when he spoke. He slumped against the wall beside Butch. He felt unhinged.

"Knocked him out," Butch answered. Harkness didn't press it. Somehow, he wasn't surprised. Harkness slotted the subduing tool, _switched off,_ into Butch's empty holster. Butch only nodded and held out the bag that contained pulse grenades. Harkness took it. He also took the pistol from Butch's left hand. _2 bullets remaining_. And Butch let him take it. Not a good sign. Butch positioned his left hand to cradle his right hand awkwardly. A flash of pain skittered across his face. _Fuck._ Had Butch injured his right arm?

"Bu-tchh –"

"Ain't we fightin' them?" Butch interrupted, glancing at the Meatheads in the room. They were already moving to get up. Without hesitation, Harkness spent the last two bullets into the Meatheads' ankles. It wouldn't kill them. But if they started running, they'd be hindered. Somewhat.

"…N-no," he said with as much control as possible. He nudged Butch to start moving. They turned to the stairs.

Ahead, Dark Meathead dragged himself up the last few steps. He was sparking so wildly that he lit up the walls blue in spasms. The thin blue lines razed around him. The shard of glass was still stuck in his eye. Dark Meathead didn't know his master was dead but he looked set on running them down. Behind them, he heard the scrapings of boots sliding on the floor. Sounded like Meatheads trying to get up.

Bullshit.

Butch shoved past him. Started running in the opposite direction. Harkness chased after him. Sped up. Ignored the currents stabbing his flesh. The walls were a blur. At the tenth step, he heard approaching footsteps. He saw the Meatheads hounding them, Dark Meathead leading the pack. All of them were sprinting as though their injuries were nothing. Coming closer. Moving faster than they should be. Harkness plucked out one pulse grenade from the bag. Turned the knob at the bottom. Slid it across the floor at them. He didn't wait for it to explode, keeping his gaze trained on the snake in front of him. The snake flickered in clarity. He heard the explosion 3 seconds behind them. They turned a corner.

"Fuck," Butch cussed at his pip-boy, slowing down.

They had found the stairs. But it was destroyed. Blocked off by rubble.

Harkness heard the footsteps starting again, behind them. Getting louder. He pulled out another grenade. Butch made a small sound and yanked him. Bolting towards a room at the edge of the rubble. Carelessly, Harkness bounced a pulse grenade off the wall without precision. His system was giving him instructions, calculating paths, angles but the information wasn't reaching him. Deleted before it reached him. _13.4% in operation. 13.3% in operation. 13.2% in operation._ Butch hauled them into the room. A storeroom. He slammed the door shut behind them. Locked it pointlessly. They heard the explosion from behind the door. The edges of an electric blue sphere emerged through the wood of the door, engulfing everything in its space. The blue lines frazzled around the wood, around some empty boxes by the door; it looked like they were burning. The blue caught the tip of Harkness' fingers. And he felt something in him get sapped. Butch grabbed him, tugging him back. Back. Back till they reached the furthest wall. The room was approximately 4.5 meters deep, 1.5 meters wide. Two metal shelves lined the right wall. Fleetingly, he noted that there were wooden boxes on them. Stacked somewhat neatly. The edge of the sphere moved further into the room, still intact, before it dispersed.

Harkness scanned the room for another way out, knowing there wasn't.

Something banged the door. It lurched against its hinges. Right. Harkness curled his fingers around the key of the next grenade only for Butch to stop him.

"It's too close," Butch said. Right. Of course he was right. "We can fight them, tin man."

No. They couldn't. They'd die before they did. Butch would - Harkness couldn't fight them off. Not like this. He needed to charge himself. Stop this slow poison in his veins. He couldn't protect Butch from them like this. He could fight until he was spent. But he wouldn't last to take all three of them down. They'd defeat him in minutes. And when that happened, they'd get Butch. And that – That wasn't going to happen. Like hell, he was going to let that happen. No.

He turned to Butch. Reached for him. He reached for the zipper of Butch's jacket. Held the tab between his thumb and forefinger shakily. And pulled it upwards. Pulled it to cover him up. To hide the skin of his chest and neck. Butch squirmed and grasped his wrist. He started moving it downwards instead.

"You're goin' the wrong way." He wasn't. Harkness wrenched it upwards again, covering more skin. Butch stopped him. Frowned. "What the hell are you doing?"

He was – Shaking. Trembling. Choking up. He looked up at Butch. Trying to see the lines of his face. His eyes. His lips. The bruise on his jaw. The softness in his gaze. The worry on his face. He could see it but it was fading in and out of focus. And Harkness realised with startling clarity what he was about to do, what he planned to do, what he'd chosen to do so easily without question. And his system wasn't refusing when it should be protesting. It was quieted, somehow. It was illogical. Irrational. Out of depth. Out of anything that any android could comprehend. It didn't make sense. This was ridiculous._ Illogical._

A hot, burning agony curled his system tight. Currents slowed its journey within him. It was pulsing. Only slowing. Like nudging his own pulses to turn the other way. Rolling through his veins. He was starting to see deep pauses of blue in his vision. Pauses of nothing but blue. _10.1% in operation. 10.0% in operation. _His system was trying to shut himself down.

He slid his palm around the back of Butch's neck. Closed his eyes and pulled him close. He knew there wasn't time for this. But he didn't let go. He just couldn't. Couldn't stop himself. He squeezed, his fingers in Butch's hair. He felt Butch stiffen then relax against him. His pulse on his cheek. The mixture of leather, blood, sweat, metal filling his head. Solid. Warm. And so alive. Not a ghost. Not Ghost-Butch. Just Butch.

It was overwhelming. But it was all irrelevant now.

Another loud bang against the door. He heard the wood splinter. Felt Butch's sharp inhale.

"Harkness?" Butch whispered, his lips brushing against his temple. Harkness felt the fingers curled around his arm push down, lowering the zipper again. Ridiculous. A huff of breath that sounded like a chuckle passed his lips.

"…so… t-troublesome."

Then, he shoved Butch away. Hard enough that Butch slammed against the wall. Hard enough that the hands on him flew off. Hard enough that Butch would be stunned for a moment. He pushed because he couldn't bear knocking Butch out. Harkness turned. Reached for the nearest shelf. Pulled it down behind him. It fell, scraping the wall. Stuck halfway down. Slanted across the space. Blocking Butch from him because he knew Butch would try to fight. Because Butch couldn't get past the shelves with an injured arm. Harkness plucked out a pulse grenade. Twisted its knob. Threw it onto the floor where the door was.

Another bang. The door screeched on its hinges. A chunk of wood spun across the floor.

Harkness pulled down the other shelf behind him. The boxes on it crashed to the floor. The shelf toppled, its metal scratching against the opposite wall. He twisted the next grenade. Threw it down. The door was bursting on its hinges. Next grenade.

Butch made a strangled sound in his throat. Harkness turned. Dropped the last grenade. Their eyes met over the fallen shelves. Butch's eyes were wide. Blue. Shocked. Butch was mouthing something, his name probably; he could barely see it, could barely hear it. He hoped that if his ghost ever came back, Butch would tell it to piss off.

The door broke open. 3 Meatheads rushed at him. Harkness threw the first punch. Felt the returning strike across his face.

And then the blue exploded by their feet.

His system jolted. Blanked him out – _You're not human – _Brilliant blue – _You've stopped fighting it – _It was all he could see –_ I have no intention of hurting you –_ _You think I'm dead – Was it that easy you bastard –_ Bright _– Harkness – I just commanded you – You obeyed – _Flooding him –_ Go ahead, Chief – _Ripping him apart_ – Turn it and throw – You're goin' the wrong way – _Consuming _- But it zings – Then it burns – _Overwhelming_ – Then it leaves a scar –I still wanna hit you – you programmed yourself – Well done, A3-21 – you – Harkness – Harkness –_

**End of part 2.**


	38. Chapter 38

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	39. Chapter 39

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

"Chiefy, anyone tell you you're special?"

…

…

…

…

"You're like… on a special level of fucked up. Like android level of fucked up. Someone messed around in your body. They put things in and took stuff out and tied a vein to a wire…I don't know. It was messy in there. Are you lost inside or something? They say you got to follow the light at the end of a… painted test tube. Or something. But at least you stopped bleeding."

…

…

…smoke.

Smoke.

"You were bleeding you know after the… boom. He wanted to resuscitate you but he doesn't know how. He got covered with your blood instead."

Smoke. Cigarettes.

Fire. Lighter… with a skull. Lighter with a J. On a chain. Stolen from a dead man. Stolen – Stolen from a dead man. Dog tags on a chain. Burns. Shattered goggles. Duct tape. Teeth. Grin. Smoke -

"And when we got back, he pulled a gun at everyone… cause they found out you're an android. He wouldn't get off the roof for a week. I had to trick him into some meds. Heh. He's easy when he hasn't been sleeping. Actually, he's always easy."

_Saint?_

"One time, I pretended to read his palm. Told him he'll kiss this girl he liked. Get good grades. Be Overseer. Meet his father. Save his mom. Have sweetrolls for dinner. All that shit. And he believed me."

Smoke. Tinkle. Metal. Lighter.

"Fuck. He believed me."

Saint.

"When he found out I was such a good liar, he was so upset he didn't beat me up for a week. I had to start hitting him first before he'd hit me. But that's not the point."

Exhalations. Smoke.

"I stopped lying to him, okay, Chiefy. So, when I said you'll wake up…"

Warm. Gentle. Palm on the forehead.

Calm.

Quiet.

Silence.

…

Quiet.

…

Murmur.

Warm.

Solid. Heavy.

Touch.

Skin. Flesh. Soft. Firm. Fingers. Hair. Hands. Smooth. Rough. Leather.

Heat.

Breath.

Whistling. Familiar. Low. Strained. Unfamiliar. Leather. Blade. Toothpick. Stolen. Stolen from a dead man. A ghost.

No. Not dead. Not a ghost.

Solid. Alive. Warm. Electric. Grenade. Explosion. Piercing. Penetrating. Consuming. Stabbing. Flooding. Overwhelming. Bright. Pain.

Blue.

Blue.

"Harkness?"

Pulse. It was rolling up his wires. There was a kind of hum starting under his skin. A kind of itch. Started from somewhere deep in his chest. But it was warm. He was burning all over. There was a heavy, solid weight pinning him down. Comfortable. Calming. Something moved in him. Something twitched. Sparked behind his eyes.

"Hey. Harkn –"

He opened his eyes to blue. Dark, deep blue. Irises. Wide. Arresting. Familiar. Unfamiliar. It was all he could see. It filled up his vision. It burned. His body burned.

Butch.

_Butch. _

He wanted to mouth words. But he wasn't saying anything.

Impossible.

How was this possible?

How…

…

How…

…

…

…

* * *

**HELLO! The amazing lilibombe has kindly offered to illustrate Part 3 of Trouble I suggest you head over to snaketincan(.)tumblr(.)com for the illustrated chapter. Also, I have more gorgeous art to link you to:  
Cigarette by NekoHellAngel - **nekohellangel(.)deviantart(.)com/art/Cigarette-208560071  
**A comic, Trouble Chapter 39 by NekoHellAngel** - nekohellangel(.)deviantart(.)com/art/Trouble-Chapter-38-Comic-209551212  
**Shelves WIP by CaTigeReptile** - catigereptile(.)deviantart(.)com/art/Shelves-209178303"Shelves

**Woot69**, thank you very much for your comments! They warm me up inside and make me smile. Thank you.

Also, thank you very much **DC, SepZet, Sammy, Lookie Hippie, candice** for your comments! I wish I can send you personal mails to thank you but I don't have any way to contact you.

**Everyone, welcome to Part 3 of Trouble. **


	40. Chapter 40

**Hello all. I am truly sorry for the delay. Sorry for making you wait. Thank you Lilibombe the Amazing for your patience and those lovely conversations. Thank you Woot the Incredible for beta-ing. (I have a beta now. Woot!) Most of all, thank YOU for your patience. I truly appreciate it. I hope this was worth the loooong wait. And I hope that you enjoy it. If you don't, I'm sorry; please tell me what displeases you.**

Alright. Here we go.

* * *

**Trouble  
Chapter 40**

…

…

…

"Android heaven finally let you go, huh, Chiefy?"

The voice cut into his thoughts. Raspy. Familiar.

"I bet they gave you pretty metal angel wings."

Someone chuckled. Someone was typing on a keyboard, filling his head with the _tap tap taps_ of keys being pressed.

Something - a palm, settled on his face. It spread warmth unevenly across his forehead. He could feel the fingertips nudging his eyelids. Heavy. Warm. Calming. The palm left his head. Footsteps moved away from him.

He was aware of the warmth across his back, pressing into him with a soft firmness. The warmth bathed his legs, tickled the soles of his bare feet and his thighs. He felt an extra layer of cloth brushing his skin with every breath. As he turned his head to follow the sound of the footsteps, he felt his hair being squashed and flattened, felt his ear sinking into the softness underneath. Something was poking the back of his neck. It didn't hurt but it was uncomfortable. He thought about rolling his shoulders and they rolled themselves, his skin brushing the fabric below.

…

Something was…

Something felt …off.

Different. Something was different.

He opened his eyes.

It was dark - No. Light. Rectangular shadows interspersed with shafts of light spilled past the holes in broken and boarded up window panes.

He had seen this before. Had been here before. This place was familiar -

Bullshit.

What the hell.

Hadn't he…

He had blown himself up.

Himself and a trio of androids. Three pulse grenades took them down. All of them.

And he was…deactivated.

_Deactivated._

What the hell was he doing here? What was this? This was impossible. This was -

Fuck.

If he was here, that meant Butch–

_Butch._

_Bullshit._

He jolted up - Something jerked his head back. A sharp buzz shot through his head. Blanked his vision for a moment. He looked down. A long red tube slipped down the edge of the mattress. It tugged at his nape as it fell, pulling something inside him. A hand clamped down on his shoulder.

"Just cause you can run before you can walk don't mean it's a good idea."

He looked up to see a grin that was all teeth.

…

…

Saint.

An eye stared at him from behind a pair of goggles, a piece of duct tape pasted over the left lens. The hand on his shoulder increased its pressure. And some of the urgent feeling in him disappeared. Because Saint was grinning at him reassuringly. Sincerely. Familiarly. He calmed. Felt a little shattered inside. He didn't think he'd ever see Saint again.

"Hold on. I'm going to unhook you," Saint said.

He felt Saint's palm travel up the juncture between neck and shoulder in a very precise yet gentle motion. Saint's fingers brushed something at his skin; it caused a ripple of sensation up his back and the same sharp buzz pushed through his head. He stilled. He could feel his skin being stretched, could feel the scratchy texture of Saint's glove keeping him still. Without warning, Saint yanked the something out his neck. He jerked. The buzz shot through his head again. Blanked him. Then the buzz left his head and raced down to the tips of his toes. It was… alarming. Something felt very off.

"You're not fully charged," Saint told him. He could read his system? Hands prodded at his neck. "99%. That's where it kept stopping." 99%? Right. He had stopped charging fully for some time, hadn't he? Reaching into the pocket of his jumpsuit, Saint took out a roll of surgical tape. "You know what happened to that last 1%?" He didn't. "It got lost. Dispersed into the parts your system can't reach. So, when you got pulsed..." Saint's voice trailed off. He watched a strip of the tape get torn off its roll. Saint reached behind him again to paste the surgical tape over his nape, kneading it down on him. "Point is… I didn't bring you back. Sure I exchanged your parts with Meatheads', fixed you up some but…" he grinned. "Your 1% kept you alive."

Alive.

He closed his eyes at some irrational need to contain some… feeling in his chest. He saw darkness behind his eyelids, darkness with only a hint of blue.

_Alive._

He blinked his eyes open to see new marks on his skin. New, neat reddish lines crossed his abdomen in addition to the faded not-so-neat lines. The wounds had been sewed up neatly, instead of stapled together. He found himself tracing the new red lines, feeling smooth bumps on his fingertips. They felt… charged. Electric. Saint said he replaced his parts with Meatheads'. Was that why everything felt different? He pulled his hands away from his skin, looking at his palms. Nothing different there. He trailed his eyes out the window. Outside, the sky was a shade of R…

R...

…

Nothing.

His system was telling him nothing.

Wasn't telling him its equivalent in RGB.

Bullshit.

He tried to call up the time, day, date, temperature.

Nothing.

No reports.

No digits.

No information.

No connections.

Nothing.

His system wasn't responding to him.

The constant flow of data was gone.

This was… illogical.

Didn't make sense.

There had to be some logical explanation for this. Obviously, he was still in operation. He wouldn't be feeling anything otherwise, wouldn't be able to see and wouldn't be able to smell the smoke in the air. Clearly, his system was present. But…

What was he supposed to do now?

"Saint," he started. He felt his throat vibrate, felt the word slip past his lips and he heard it but he couldn't see the word behind his eyes.

What was he supposed to do?

When he looked up, Saint had pushed his goggles up into his hair. He seemed to be analysing him, seemed to see something as he adopted a little crease between his brows. His stare hardened but his expression barely changed, the grin faltering slightly; only for a moment. Then, the frown faded. Saint's grin widened, turned warmer. Turned reassuring. With a flutter of fingers in a short wave, Saint gestured for him to get off the mattress.

"You got to learn to move without your wings."

Right. That was a good place to start.

He swung his legs off the mattress. Slowly, carefully, he placed his feet flat on the floor into a spot of sunlight that filtered through the window. The spot was warm and hard against his bare feet. He braced himself then pushed up. He lurched. Before he could start to fall, he had already pulled himself steady. Disorienting. He straightened up, lifting a leg before he had thought about it. It hovered over the floor aimlessly for a moment. Angling his foot in mid-air in the most natural-feeling direction, he placed it some unknown distance in front of his left foot. He put his weight on it; his body pushed forward then stopped. He had managed to take a step. Repeating the procedure, he took another step. Then another. And another. He felt his body embrace the movements without the prompts of his system. Walking had never felt like... He had never _felt_ his body walk before. The effort he put into this action was indefinable.

He raised his eyes and saw Saint examining him closely, a clinical gaze travelling up his arms and legs. Analytical without being invasive.

On a nearby desk, a shirt and a pair of pants had been laid out. He reached for them now, his fingers touching the pants; he felt the coarse ribbing of interlaced threads. The pants unfolded when he pulled them off the table. He held the pants up. Balancing himself, he lifted his right leg, manoeuvring his leg in such a way that it slid smoothly into the pants. Was he controlling this? He felt the fabric encase his leg, felt the floor meet his feet - and he was already halfway done. He had done this many times, a thousand times, probably more, but this felt new. Familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. He found that both his legs had fit themselves snugly into the pants as his fingers buttoned up. Then he was reaching for the shirt. His hand grabbed it with more force than necessary; he relaxed the grip. With sudden efficiency, he pulled his head through the opening and his arms through the sleeves. He stared down at his clothed self, trying to connect with the lapses of control. He couldn't seem to grasp them. He couldn't understand it.

Saint shut his lighter closed, the sound making him snap his focus to it; he hadn't heard it being flicked open. Saint was staring at him levelly, a stare that seemed to penetrate his skin and into his ghost. The grin slowly dwindled to a smile that he had never seen before.

"Butch is outside."

_Butch._

_Outside._

_Alive._

He was already leaving Saint's smile behind. He found himself making his way to the front door. Fast and purposeful like he hadn't just been struggling with walking. He reached the door. Pushed it open to sunlight.

And -

And there he was.

A distinct figure in the middle of his vision.

Butch.

The sight pulled at something deep in him, something that made his bare feet stop in the sand.

It was the snake that greeted him first, from the back of the leather jacket. Butch turned his head. Looked over his shoulder. And froze. The look in his face was… It was… indescribable. Unreadable. His eyes widened as they took him in. They travelled over his body. Roamed over him. The blue in them glinted where they captured the sunlight. Then Butch started walking. Walked towards him in stuttering steps. He traced the line of Butch's scuffed boots and up his jumpsuit. Then the steps sped up. Butch stopped in front of him; he couldn't approximate a distance. It was close enough that he could feel the heat radiating off him. His eyes fell on Butch's right hand, on the splint that spread over the side of his hand and looped around his wrist.

"…Harkness?" That came out as an unsure whisper. It sounded… new. Different. Intimate. It clenched around something in his chest. Made him ache. Made him… hurt. Made him feel broken inside. He pulled his eyes away from where he had been staring at the splint to meet the gaze searching his face. Butch looked pale; there were darker circles around his eyes. His hair still looked immaculate. There was this expression on his face that was… unreadable. There was something vulnerable in his eyes. Something he had seen many times but couldn't quite catch. It was there now. It wasn't flickering away even as the gaze dropped to his arm.

He watched the injured hand reach for him. Slow and shaking. They pressed into Harkness' bare arm. Touch. So charged. It stunned him. Arresting. Different. Yet wasn't. Soft points of concentrated heat. Pressed a little deeper, making dents in his flesh when they moved. He let them walk. Let them move up his arm, following the veins, leaving ghosts of heat where they touched. He was drawn to it. His whole being was. Following that motion closely, eagerly, seeking out the traces of remaining heat. He wanted to soak it all in. Swallow it. The thumb slid over his wrist, rested against his pulse; he felt his fingers clench.

"Butch," he said. Butch inhaled sharply, eyes flicking up to his. Blue. Just blue in his vision. The fingers trembled against his skin. He could feel his pulse nudge against the pad of the thumb. Kissing the skin there. Sucking in the heat. He could feel his pulse quicken. He knew Butch could feel it too under his thumb.

"You," Butch started. The word was an exhale against his cheek. "You remember me."

He wasn't programmed - No. He couldn't forget Butch if he tried. And he had tried. He parted his lips to answer but the words didn't leave his mouth.

"You remember what happened?" Butch asked. This time, the question came out like a challenge. He nodded without pause. Butch huffed a breathless chuckle. Then Butch stepped back. Away from him.

He saw the fist before it connected with his jaw.

Sharp. Shocking. Disarming. The pain spread fast and hot, racketing up the side of his face. His vision blurred. His head felt detached from his body. And the pain - he felt his whole head throb. He tried to blink away the spots floating in his vision. He tasted the metallic taste of synthetic blood in his mouth. Something jammed into his gut. He doubled over, his body clenching around it. He coughed. It hurt to breathe. Had pain always felt like this? Something slammed into him and he hit the ground. The impact dispelled all his breath. His body felt on fire. When he could finally focus, he saw Butch staring down at him with a dangerous glint in his eyes, his thighs by his side pinning him in place, his weight, solid and heavy, pushing him down.

"You fuckin' bastard tin can rust bucket toaster -" Butch shoved him down even though he was already flat on his back. "You're learning Johnny's crap." Butch cursed. "Why the _fuck_ do you think I knock him out all the time? Goody-two-shoes is gonna kill himself and ain't gonna wake up one day," Butch hissed now, words spilling forth from barely parted lips. "And now you're doing it – What? You wanna be a hero too?" Hands gripped the front of his shirt. Lifted his head off the ground to slam him back down. A cloud of dust flew up into the air. "Don't do that shit again, tin man," Butch threatened, words bit out harshly. He reared back his right fist. "Or I gotta knock you out too."

Right. He doubted Butch could knock him out. But…

His system's instincts should have taken over and pushed Butch away by now. It wouldn't take a second of this bullshit at all. But his system stayed quiet. And… letting him be beat up… And he didn't know what to do – No. He knew, logically, what he should do. He should push Butch off and pin him down until he stopped fighting. But how much control did he have at the moment? What if he… Fuck. Like hell he was going to hurt Butch even though Butch was clearly bent on hurting him. He felt the sting from the hits ebbing away into tiny pinpricks of feeling. He found his fingers skittering in the sand, the grains moving around. Restlessly wanting to touch but he wasn't letting them. He forced them flat on the sand. Because he had no idea what they would do. He watched Butch's eyes narrow in on the action and the fist tightened.

"Use your…left hand," he demanded. Because Butch would just fuck up his already injured right hand if he punched.

Butch frowned. The fist wavered in mid-air. And then the fist dropped heavily onto his chest with a thud. The sound echoed within his frame. The fist unclenched, the palm flattened against his chest. He could feel the warmth radiating from the tips of those fingers, penetrating deep into him. His pulse drummed within that touch. He could feel the warmth spreading over him where their bodies met, firm and solid and all arresting heat that breathed against him. He knew that this should feel intimidating. And it was. But Butch's presence was also… soothing. And burning. They were polarised sensations within a same category. He didn't know what category it was and his system didn't offer anything. He knew that he… he didn't know what he wanted. Didn't know what to do.

As he looked up at Butch, he saw that the blue in his eyes had darkened; they appeared even more determined. More purposeful. More... inviting. More concerned. The tinge of vulnerability was still there. He could see the faint freckles on his nose, the faint scars on his skin. Could see a flush creeping up Butch's throat. He could feel the shuddering exhales ghosting over his cheeks, over his lips. The stray serpentine strand of hair traced indefinite patterns on his forehead and the bridge of his nose. He felt the hand on his chest press harder. Felt the fingers curl into his shirt and flesh. Digging. Pulling.

Then Butch slid off his body, a smooth, fluid motion of heat. It sparked streaks of hot and cold over him. Dragged over him. Made him… twitch in reaction. The world felt too sharp now. Too sharp and too… Too charged. His fingertips had started skittering in the sand again.

Someone's upside down face popped into view.

"Get up, Meat Chief," Sticky gushed excitedly. Meat Chief? "I wanna see you kick Butch around."

"You okay, Chief?" Dusty asked with evident concern. Hovering above his face, Sticky was beaming at him with excitement.

"Yeah," he answered. He moved his arms, feeling the gritty sand underneath him shift with the motion. He turned his palms to the ground and pushed himself up to a sitting position. He succeeded in not planting his face to the ground. The pain he felt was mostly gone; he hadn't realised it. But the pleasant hum was still moving around his body. Someone's left hand came into his vision. He traced it up to Butch whose dark eyes stared at him intensely, like he was still about to jump him. He knew he shouldn't take that offered hand because he'd just pull Butch down with his weight. But he found himself clasping his fingers around that hand and instead of letting himself be pulled, he straightened himself up. Butch let go to dust the sand grains off his arm. They had left tiny imprints in his skin.

"Hey," Sticky poked his other arm. "Can I see your wires?"

Bullshit.

Sticky knew about his android-ness?

He was about to confront when Butch answered for him.

"Sure," Butch said, unfazed. "He'll puke them out for you, numbskull."

"You can puke?" Sticky continued asking, his smile widening.

"You're a dumbass." Flash appeared beside Dusty, pointing a finger at Butch. "Now that Chief's awake you want to beat him up? You fucking shot at us when we found out about him." Shot? And Bigtown knew about him?

"Yeah, yeah. Whatever," Butch drawled distractedly, nudging for Harkness to enter the house. Harkness was already walking inside, leaving Bigtown behind. He found himself heading into Saint's lab. Saint was waiting for him.

"You know this would happen," Saint said somewhat apologetically through his friendly grin. Saint was twirling the roll of surgical tape around his index finger as he handed Harkness a piece of cotton. Saint's eyes flicked over Harkness in a casually analytical way. His grin widened. "Huh," he exhaled as though impressed. "You losing your touch, Tunnel Snake? You held back."

"Piss off Nosebleed," Butch hissed from the doorway. Butch moved towards the table, fiddling with his pip-boy; his right hand was still shaking. He trailed his eyes up at Harkness. "He wasn't hitting me back," he said, sounding slightly upset.

Harkness started to wipe the soft material on his face. It caught at something on the side of his mouth which ached. He pressed on it. He could hear Butch yanking off his pip-boy. He could hear Saint playing with his lighter. When he pulled the cotton away, it had soaked up the some of the synthetic blood. Red. His system still didn't offer him its equivalent in RGB.

Right.

He was fucked.

He was also… exhausted. Logically, he shouldn't be feeling exhausted. Even though his system was quiet, he recognised that he was at a substantial level of energy. No matter how it felt to be hit around by Butch, he knew from previous experience that he wasn't badly damaged.

But he felt so drained. And yet so charged. He felt a constant sense of overwhelmed. He couldn't control it. Couldn't understand it. He moved to the mattress and sat down on it. Soft and firm at the same time. The blanket was still on the floor where he left it. He manoeuvred his body carefully, pulling his legs up and twisting his body so that he could lie down. He felt his weight sink into the mattress.

"Chiefy," Saint called. "You entering sleep mode?" Was he?

"…yeah," he answered, closing his eyes to darkness tinged blue.

When he awoke, the sunlight had gone. It was dark outside. He caught glimpses of the sky through the broken window panes. Blue. Nighttime. There was a flame flickering light wildly across the walls and ceiling. He turned slowly. He scanned the lab. A huge computer was standing to the right of the mattress. It resembled one of those computers that were in Zimmer the fucking dead bastard's lab. This computer had a red tube attached to it; it was the same tube that Saint had disconnected from his neck when woke up this morning… or afternoon or yesterday – he didn't know. Across from that, Saint was at the long table, sitting on it and peering into a beaker of glowing greenish liquid. Saint started to stir the liquid with a glass rod, causing a chorus of tinkles.

"Butch is on the roof," Saint greeted him. Right. He wasn't falling for that again. Not yet. He braced himself before pushing himself up. This time, he managed the action without problems.

"Saint," he said. "What time is it?" He heard Saint's stirring stop.

"Night." Saint stood up from his seat and pushed up his goggles. He glanced at his pip-boy. "Around 10 at night," he answered again, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a packet of cigarettes. He took a cigarette from the pack and placed it between his teeth. Then he threw the packet of cigarettes at Harkness.

It smacked against his chest and dropped to his lap.

Harkness hadn't caught it. Hadn't dodged it. Hadn't even attempted to.

Bullshit.

Harkness picked the pack up just as Saint reached him. He opened the pack to take out a stick and bit down on it, watching Saint light the end up for him. He inhaled. Exhaled. He watched the smoke curl out of his mouth. This, strangely, didn't feel new. It didn't feel any different at all. Saint reached for the pack and took out another cigarette. He pushed it between his lips, right next to the other lit cigarette.

"So, tell me how fucked up your system is right now."


	41. Chapter 41

Hello, everyone. Thank you for reading. Thank you for your support, your patience and your awesomeness. It really means a lot to me. Thank you Woot, Albertogang and Lilibombe for being amazing. Thank you, Woot for being an incredible beta. Seriously. She writes chapters for her own story while editing my chapters for 'Trouble'. If there are any faults in the chapter, they are my own and not hers.

Hope you enjoy this chapter :D

* * *

**Trouble  
Chapter 41**

It was still silent in here.

Silent in his system.

It had been two days since he had woken up from consciousness. Nothing had changed. Nothing was answered. He only knew it had been two days because Saint told him so. His system had lost its concept of time. If he wanted to know the exact time, he had to check someone's pip-boy. He realised that he didn't want to. Not really. He chose instead to look at the sky and observe the shadows on the ground. To note the transition from night to day without digits.

He also found out that he had been deactivated for almost three months. In one of Saint's scattered open notebooks, someone had scratched neat rows of black lines. He manually counted 87 scratches of ink. He assumed it meant 87 days. Close to three months. All that time - Gone. His system stayed quiet. Had no comment in response.

During those lost 87 days, Flash, Pappy and Shorty had escorted Eulogy's prisoners to their respective hometowns after Red and Saint had worked on their injuries. Also, in those lost days, Butch spent a week on the roof, supposedly shooting at Bigtown when they found out Harkness was an android. He hadn't confronted Butch about that. Or about anything, really. Not even his missing 'belongings'. Their last confrontation was some hours, minutes, seconds ago – yesterday.

Yesterday, Harkness had accidentally bumped into Saint's table and a beaker toppled over. He had managed to catch the beaker with a sudden surge of precise dexterity. It landed in his hands. And then it was crushed into pieces when he gripped it too hard. Butch had shoved him, just one hard, brutal shove towards the mattress where he pried his hands open to pick glass out of his palms. Butch stared at him like he wanted to do more than just shove him, like he wanted to hit him. Instead, he sighed, a frustrated sound that tugged at something in Harkness' chest. The soft vulnerability was there in that blue gaze but the fingers around his own were firm. And when Harkness just stared at him as he worked, Butch's intense gaze came first before the flush swashed up his neck. Saint snickered from where he was tinkering with a metal can, commenting on whether the absent system was truly a problem or not.

Of course it was. He wouldn't be bumping into tables otherwise.

Today, now, he could see his system speaking. Lines of code danced on the monitor of the supercomputer. Words and numbers in a huge wall of greenish text scrolled down the screen endlessly. They were moving like some kind of new species of wildlife. Writhing and blinking and flashing at him from the screen as they transmitted through the red tube from behind his neck. These codes used to be neater. They used to be in neat chunks of words and commands which moved only when dead fucking bastard Zimmer tampered with it. Here, on this screen, his system writhed. It was a tangled mess of binary and everything else. Small little symbols he'd never seen before that resembled smiley faces. Small chunks of empty brackets. Obviously, his system was still present. Still here. Just altered.

Saint typed something into the computer. In response, his system puked out a bunch of new numbers and letters.

"You can understand all that?" he asked.

"No." Saint flashed him a grin. It didn't matter, really. Even if Saint didn't understand a single word, Harkness trusted him more than he trusted that sick dead fucking bastard Zimmer. "I just want to make it… breathe. That's what I was thinking of the whole time." Saint typed something else into the computer. "Make Chiefy breathe."

And Harkness was indeed breathing. He felt his chest heaving with deep breaths. Felt the beats of his pulse reverberating in him. He also felt the rake of a gaze on his skin. Familiar and constant.

On the table across from them, Butch watched. Watched him. He could feel the heavy gaze skimming on the surface of his skin. Like it was filled with words. Speaking to him without saying anything. He wondered if it had always been like this. Because this didn't feel too different. It felt like normal Butch. Normal. Trailing his eyes across the distance between them, he saw the way Butch stopped fiddling with the tab of his zipper with his right hand; the splint was still wrapped around it. He saw every gesture. Every move. Every flick of his gaze. It all read like he was just a few steps away from jumping Harkness and was deliberately choosing not to take those steps.

Harkness pulled his eyes away from where they were starting to trace the curve of a collarbone. When he turned back to the screen, he saw his codes pulsing a little quicker.

"Looks to me like your system's still breathing." Saint chuckled. He slid his goggles over his eyes. "It's probably just lost its way." Patting Harkness' shoulder in reassurance, he said "In the meantime, I guess, you have to learn to be human. Or… you know, learn to be an android."

Right. What the hell was he supposed to do now?

Saint stood up from the supercomputer to move to his table of experiments while Harkness continued watching the words and digits run across the screen at varying speeds and lengths. He didn't know how long he sat there but he watched his system flicker at him. It was familiar. It was part of him. But it wasn't giving him any answers. He had tried reaching for them in his head, trying to follow the same paths he had taken to access his system. A few times, he seemed to feel a charged thread shooting through him. Faint but sharp. It reeled him along till it stopped. The journeys faded into nothing leading nowhere. There was something there, he could feel it. But he couldn't find it. Couldn't touch it.

He reached up for the tube behind his neck; the cool metal had turned hot at the point where it met his flesh. He curled his fingers around it to determine which angle he should yank it out; he couldn't tell. He twisted the plug; a sharp buzz went through his head, blanking his vision.

And then there were fingers around his, yanking the tube out in a clean, fast motion. The buzz shimmered under his skin, rippling through his body till it reached the tips of his toes. He felt the touch in his hair, curling around strands of it as a thumb rubbed the sore spot on the back of his neck. Soothing and…coaxing at the same time. Harkness froze, and then relaxed in Butch's hold. He knew it was Butch. Of course he did. And this… This didn't feel different – No. It did. But this was very familiar. The burning was still vibrating in his wires and flesh. Intense and demanding. Had it always been like this?

He could feel Butch's rough fingers kneading him. Pressing down. Massaging as his thumb ran down the back of his neck. He was pasting surgical tape over where the tube was. The action felt so different from when Saint did it. This touch was a magnetic pull that made his pulse pitch and stutter and race. In front of him, Butch's jacket fell open, exposing a smattering of freckles on his chest leading up his neck. And Harkness was hit with his smell – his clean, masculine scent of leather and musk – of Butch. The hands slid down his neck, lingering on his shoulders as they left, tracing skin without looking, leaving ghosts of heat where they touched.

Butch peered into his face, eyes narrowing.

"What? You okay?" Harkness nodded. Butch took a step back, increasing the distance. He felt his body twitch in reaction. Looking down, he noticed that his hands were gripping the edge of the mattress. So tight, he could see the skin of his knuckles turn white with effort; they almost seemed translucent. When did that happen? He slowly, _slowly _unclamped his fingers from where they were gripping hard. He could almost feel the way his joints creaked in protest, tension running up his arms. He pulled on the shirt beside him, noting the way Butch had started nibbling on his lower lip. His eyes darted to the curve of that neck again and the dusting of freckles and -

Right.

He started walking.

"Where are you going?" Butch demanded. His hand was stretched out to grab his arm but it stopped short of contact.

"…I have no idea," Harkness replied honestly. He just felt strangely charged, looking at the fingers now hovering over his arm. He felt like shooting things. "I feel like shooting things," he blurted.

"Good idea," Saint's voice suddenly piped up from the table. Harkness turned to see him stirring something with his finger. There was a twinkle in his eye that was somehow targeted at him even though Saint obviously wasn't looking at him. "Can't be a Chief if you can't shoot." Right. That made sense. "Can't be a Chief if you don't eat, either."

Communal breakfast in Bigtown was… noisy. The obvious acceptance of his android nature was… unexpected but not unwelcome. Sticky planted himself next to him, sputtering questions through mouthfuls of food. He asked about Meatheads and bastard surgeons and Android land. Across the table, Pappy and Flash stared at him with some kind of open admiration as they picked apart their grilled squirrels. Shorty dismissed him after confirming he was an android. Kimba merely looked at him for some time before handing him a bowl of squirrel stew. Red bombarded him with questions about Commonwealth technology. Pappy offered him a cigarette. He took it, stuck it between his lips and instantly four flames lit up in front of his face. Bittercup, Flash and Pappy stared expectantly at him, warming him with their penetrating gazes and their lighters. Four flames from three people; Flash was holding up two lighters. The rest of the town hall had quieted in anticipation. Leaning into the combined flames, he let the cigarette catch on fire. Pappy, Flash and Bittercup beamed at him. Bigtown resumed its noise.

The three Bigtowners in front of him shut their lighters simultaneously but didn't move away from him. They peered at his face. Bittercup lifted her hand and trailed her fingers on his cheek. Gentle. Her skin was soft and smooth. He could barely feel the heat from them.

"You feel so human, Chief," she purred and then whined in protest. He realised that he had tilted his head away from her touch. She eyed him critically. "You don't get attracted to humans?"

Right. He had no idea.

He supposed her hand on his cheek was…nice. Or something like that. Butch didn't feel like this at all – no. Butch felt nice. Of course he did. But Butch felt more than nice. He felt like… Like everything… And everything else. Illogical. He found himself scanning the room, eyes floating to where Butch was already staring at him. The blue in his eyes were dark, his gaze piercing. He didn't look happy. But Harkness felt better seeing him there. Felt better in some immeasurable way.

"Maybe Chief just isn't attracted to you, Cuppy." Harkness turned back to them; he was leaning away from Bittercup again. Flash snorted.

"Paps, shut up," Bittercup said, rolling her eyes. "Maybe Chief just-"

"We gonna shoot things or what, tin man?" Butch interrupted. He stood next to Harkness now, a hard stare trained on Pappy, Flash and Bittercup. His voice was soft and deep, a threat laced somewhere in that statement. His posture seemed to promise the same kind of hostility. Bittercup, Flash and Pappy scrambled away with barely more than a 'Bye Chief'. But Butch was still tense even though they had gone. Without thinking, Harkness grasped his arm.

The rush of warmth on his skin was… electric. He stilled at the contact. His pulse thrummed around that grip. His body hummed. He felt his fingers spasm because they wanted to pull and he wasn't letting them because… He remembered the mattress he gripped, the beaker he broke and he unclamped his fingers, keeping the sensation in the palm of his hand. Above him, Butch was staring at him in both confusion and something else.

"Right," Harkness said, startled by the smoke curling out of his mouth; he hadn't been breathing. "Shoot things."

They left the town hall. Harkness threw the cigarette on the ground while Dusty and Timebomb waved at him from the entrance of Bigtown. Butch fell into step beside him, already zipping up the jacket to his neck. They headed to the empty shooting range. All of Saint's careful arrangements were still in place but there were more empty bottles now. Harkness picked up the BB rifle leaning against the shelf; it was loaded, like always. Butch was already in position, his pistol aimed at something on the shelf. He had transferred the pistol from his injured right hand to his left. He pulled the trigger. The bullet shattered one of the glass bottles. Something in Harkness' chest jolted at the sight. He jumped back to the moment Butch shot Zimmer dead. _Badass._ He hadn't thanked Butch for that. He turned to the rifle in his hands.

He flicked at the safety. Cocked the rifle. Lifted it up to a comfortably familiar position. He set the sights at the bobblehead on one of the upper shelves. Then he pulled the trigger. The pellet sailed through the air –

And missed the bobblehead.

…

Bullshit.

He cocked the gun again. Pulled the trigger.

The pellet grazed the edge of a teddy bear's ear as it passed.

Right.

He aimed. Took another shot -

The pellet bounced off the shelf and buried itself in the sand.

"What the…You didn't hit anythin'," Butch said next to him. He sounded… horrified. Shocked. Concerned.

"Right," Harkness replied.

He looked at his fingers around the rifle. At the distance between himself and the targets. The still standing articles on the shelves. The undisturbed scene in front of him. A huff of breath that sounded like a chuckle slipped past his lips.

"I've never missed anything before." He lifted the gun and cocked it. He glanced at Butch. "Targets, anyway," he corrected. He wasted another shot.

Five - or ten - or more shots later, he watched the pellet hit the side of the shelf, ricocheting into the sand where it bounced twice then rolled to a stop. He cocked the rifle, watching the sunlight glint off the side of the metal. There was a satisfying, pleasurable hum running up his limbs. Butch had actually stopped making sounds of disbelief some shots ago. But he looked like he was still in disbelief.

"Havin' fun, tin man?" Butch drawled.

"…Something like that," he answered, turning to the shelves and pulling the trigger. The pellet hit nothing perfectly. Butch cursed.

He was out of pellets. Again. Butch picked up one container of BBs from the stack of containers on the ground. For a moment, they listened to the sound of the metal pellets sliding into place. When the gun was loaded, Butch pried his fingers off it. He dusted some dirt off the shaft and lifted it, aiming at something. After some moments, he returned to the gun to Harkness without shooting. He had this… thoughtful look on his face, like he was thinking deep thoughts. Harkness had seen that look before. Of course he did. He was sure that his system had categorised it somewhere; he just couldn't access it. Seeing it now and recognising it without his system, it clutched at him strangely. It felt closer to him in some indescribable way.

Harkness turned to the shelves again. But he didn't lift up the rifle just yet. He… They both watched the shelves while the sky above watched them. Quiet. Silent.

"What's it like?" Butch started, his voice travelling to him softly. "Your… system thing."

"You've seen it," he replied and a frisson of… uneasiness coursed through him. He rolled his shoulders feeling the awkwardness wash over him, realising that Butch had indeed seen his insides exposed like that.

"Yeah. But y'know…" Butch shrugged. He trailed his eyes over to Harkness, watching him. "You need it to shoot straight or somethin'?"

"Something like that." He ran his hand across the barrel, feeling the nicks in the metal. "It's mostly facts." He lifted the gun now, pressing the stock to his shoulder and setting the sights on nothing in particular. Probably the empty whiskey bottle.

"What kind… of facts?" Butch asked again in a forced nonchalant way which meant that this mattered to some degree. Harkness lowered the gun slightly, watching him over his shoulder. Butch faced him fully now, that thoughtful look in his face. He had his hands stuck in his pockets, clearly waiting for an answer.

"Everything," Harkness answered. "Like which angle to aim. How high to hold the gun. The current temperature. The colour of your –" eyes. "Jumpsuit." Butch gave him a long, intense look that made his hands reflexively tighten around the rifle.

"It's blue."

"Right." He knew that.

Suddenly, Butch grasped the barrel of the rifle. Harkness stilled, watching him take a step closer. He let Butch step nearer still, till he could feel the length of a leg pressed against his own. As Butch glanced at the targets, he tipped the rifle higher. "This high," he murmured. He pushed a little more, to the side now. Nudged the rifle some degree to the left. "This angle." Then he faced Harkness. He lifted his left hand. Placed it against the front of his shoulder. And curved his fingers around it. Firmly. Tightly. A sudden, strong pulse shot through his body and he rolled his shoulders; Butch's fingers curling in a little tighter. Tugging him close. He found himself yielding. Leaning. Forwards. Closer. And he felt… His body slipped into _familiar_. Slipped into an odd full-body feeling of _right_. He looked down to his feet; they shifted themselves, inching apart. He looked up. At Butch. Past Butch. On the sights. On the target.

The bottle shattered on the shelf.

They both froze.

He had pulled the trigger. And the pellet had hit a target.

_Bullshit._

How the -

Somehow… somehow Butch had known -

"What?" Butch drawled. His hand fell off Harkness' shoulder, heat pulling away from him. "You know I seen the way you shoot." He stepped back and glanced at the target. There was a small quirk on the left corner of his lips.

"You forgot temperature," Harkness blurted. Butch's eyes returned to Harkness. Then, the small quirk of his lips lifted. A slow smirk spread across his face. Cocky. Familiar. Seeing it made his chest ache; he hadn't seen that smirk since he woke up.

"Hot." Butch ran his eyes up his form. Looking at Harkness as though he was seeing the codes in him now, as though he was reading him. "Very hot." The smirk widened just for a moment - before it faded. Butch peered at him, gaze intense. Open, honest, blue. "You don't need no system, Harkness."

_His name._ It was… It sounded warm. Sounded intimate. Heavy and weighted. Sounded important in Butch's mouth.

In a moment, Butch was zipping up his jacket and stepping away.

Immediately, Harkness felt his hand slide off the gun. Darting out to grab Butch. His fingers stopped short of grabbing, brushing over the sleeve of the jacket. Butch paused in his steps. He eyed those fingers. Then stared up at him with a touch of vulnerability in his eyes.

Only then could he hear the sound of fighting going on behind them. Could hear Dusty yelling something at Pappy. Flash was yelling something else. And Sticky was calling Butch.

"Don't fuck up your hand," he said. A look of disbelief flashed over Butch's face. He snorted. A faint smirk hovered over his lips.

"Sure thing, tin man."

Harkness turned back to the shelves, listening to the sound of footsteps moving away. He didn't like it.

He cocked the rifle, forcing his body into position. Making it slot into the _right_ness he felt just now.

He lifted up the rifle. Aimed at a tin can. Pulled the trigger.

The tin can spun, wobbling for a moment but didn't drop. The pellet had only grazed its side.

Bullshit.

Clearly, he needed his system. Of course, he did. He was an _android_. Without his system, he…wasn't.

He wasn't human either.

...

Right.

He had to learn to be... himself.


	42. Chapter 42

**Hey there! Thank you for your patience and support. I truly, truly appreciate it.**

I have a list of links for amazing Butch+Hark art by amazing artists. **Shuka-the-Echigoya's** piece, Harkness and Razor (_shuka-the-echigoya(.)deviantart(.)com/art/Harkness-and-Razor-212839102_) is sooooo well-timed :D and gorgeous. **albertogang's** HP-17(_albertogang(.)deviantart(.)com/art/HP-17-223468664_), Butch and Harkness 3(_albertogang(.)deviantart(.)com/art/butch-and-harkness-3-244671504_) and Grab My Hair(_albertogang(.)deviantart(.)com/art/grab-my-hair-245577515_). Albertogang is such a great person to talk to. I have so much respect for you, man.

Thank you too, **lilibombe** and **Woot** aka DellyJelly for your constant inspirational selves. Thank you, Woot for being such a patient beta. She is currently writing an awesome, hot Colin Moriarty/James(our daddy) piece entitled Drink and the Devil (_fanfiction(.)net/s/7170609/1/Drink_and_the_Devil_).

**Alright. I hope you enjoy this chapter everyone. :) **

* * *

**Trouble  
Chapter 42**

He woke up to the silence in his head.

Just like yesterday. And the day before.

He stared at the hints of blue in the darkness behind his eyelids as his pulse synchronised with his breathing. He reached out to the charged threads in his head. Followed their fine lines till they brought him nowhere again. Nothing had changed. One day, he might get used to this. Probably not. His body stirred into waking.

He could hear the sounds of life now. Could smell the faint scent of smoke in the air that was synonymous with the lab. He felt the warmth of sunlight on his skin. And felt a different kind of warmth spreading deep into his chest. Because someone was here with him. The sound of deep breathing was familiar to him. He had listened to it before. Some time ago. Months. Maybe a year ago. Back when Butch was beat up badly enough by Sister that he had to rest. When Butch returned to the ship, exhausted and bleeding. Yesterday when he fell asleep watching Harkness trying to shoot tin cans off a shelf. According to Butch, he had managed to shoot 11 out of 21 cans. What was that? 30% accuracy? 40%?

Bullshit.

He opened his eyes to sunlight, to a sky that was a shade of bright light. Morning. Or probably noon. He blinked at it, noting its shade of… blue. Just blue. He turned his head to the right, seeking more blue. Expecting to see Butch trying to wake him up by staring at him like the way he usually did.

But Butch's eyes were closed, shut tight in sleep. Face slackened and lips parted. His exhales made his hair twirl in the air. He was sitting in Saint's chair, head resting on the desk behind him, feet propped up on the keyboard of the switched off supercomputer in front of him. The folded black mass under his head was his jacket used as a pillow and his pip-boy sat on the desk beside his head, blank and asleep as well. He had seen Butch asleep before. Had seen him sit in that same position in that same chair, seemingly waiting for him. Always a stirring sight to wake up to.

This morning, his eyes were drawn downwards - to the expanse of bare skin. He traced the curve of his neck with his eyes. Trailed the tendons into the hollow of his throat. To the smattering of freckles. The rising and falling chest. The invisible line down his torso. The fine, dark hairs leading down. Down his navel, disappearing under his hand, under the limp sleeves of the jumpsuit that lay across his lap. The sunlight dipped in the ridges of defined muscles, smoothing over flesh, shimmering over the varying shades of skin. Over the two long scars down his navel, pale and white. The ragged scar on his stomach. The three scratches on his –

Harkness stilled. He watched his outstretched fingers hovering over skin. Over the veins on Butch's exposed arm. Over the scratches there.

He wondered what the hell he was about to do. Whether he wanted to wake Butch up because that position wasn't comfortable to sleep in. Whether he wanted to wake Butch up to tell him he was awake. Or whether he just wanted to - Why the _hell _would he want to wake him up? Butch clearly needed sleep.

A kind of ache rolled under his skin as he pulled his hand away. He gripped the edge of the mattress instead. He swallowed but his throat had gone dry. He shifted his legs down, touching the floor with his bare feet. His body tensed at the cold. He ignored it. Ignored his shirt on the mattress. And inched towards the table.

There was a bowl of Sugar Bombs and a bottle of purified water waiting for him – Butch's offering of breakfast for today. Or probably lunch. Another part of this semblance of routine. So far, he had been given mutfruits. Bottles of water. Some sort of stew. Some sort of cake thing. The same things he had seen and tasted before but were different now somehow. The stew had been thick, spicy, warm, slightly gritty and filling. The cake had been soft, chewy, sweet and pleasant. Mutfruits were juicy, a little crunchy, sweet and tangy. And water was clean when it was purified. The world was so much sharper without the categories in his head. A whole dictionary of nuances his system hadn't figured out when it had been present.

He picked up one piece of cereal and bit down on it. It was crunchy. Dry. Slightly sweet and salty on his tongue. He uncapped the bottle of water. Put it to his mouth to take a sip. Lukewarm. Clean and plain. His eyes ran down Butch's form as he swallowed, feeling the water slide down his parched throat. He emptied the bottle. Started walking. At the open doorway, he glanced back at his sleeping companion. He hadn't stirred, still asleep in that position. The rest of the house was quiet. Saint was most probably on the roof.

Harkness made his way to the bathroom. The dampness of the tiles stuck to the soles of his feet as he entered the room. He bent down at the sink to wash his face. When he looked up into the mirror, he couldn't recognise himself.

No. He could. Of course, he could. But it was… different. There seemed to be changes here he couldn't catch. A change in his posture. A change in his gestures. His expressions. His gaze. Something that seemed less rigid, more fluid. Something he couldn't explain. Couldn't understand. These days after waking were filled with questions he couldn't answer. Questions he didn't even know how to ask. Like what was he supposed to do now? Would he ever be the same again?

It was different from when he was a human security chief in Rivet City named Harkness. He had continued life without being aware of his system. Without knowing it even existed. He took every shot perfectly. Held beakers without breaking them. Walked without stumbling. Back then, he could equate all these complications to 'humanity' even though it wasn't. When Saint activated the code, the flood of memories and information from his system had been too much that he desynchronised for a moment. Only a moment because they had always been there. His system had been speaking to him in its muted state, working to raise his legs for walking, adjusting his fingers to hold. Blocking data flow and letting it slip through in small threads rephrased into words. His system had been working for him to deceive him. Working on running this… 'human' program. To make him think he was more of a man, less of a machine.

Now that his system was absent, there was nothing there, no program to help him deal with this… silence. Just his body and himself.

What was he, now?

He pressed his wet palms to his face, covering his eyes. He felt the coolness slide down his cheeks, his neck and his chest. Watched them drip. He ran his fingers across his lips, feeling the wet grooves on the pad of his thumb. Felt the stubble on his jaw. It was pushing to grow. He hadn't thought to disturb it since he awoke. For 87 days of deactivation, it was short. Had the hair been programmed to stop at a certain length and not any longer? This felt like five days worth of stubble. Probably. He had no idea.

His eyes fell on the straight razor on the edge of the sink. It was the same one Butch had used on him months ago. There was a flare of heat at the back of his neck as he recalled the way it had felt. To have the blade on him, fingers sliding on his skin. Butch hadn't asked him at all. Hadn't asked him if he wanted a shave since he woke up. Not that he was expecting the barber to ask but he used to do it almost daily. Harkness picked the razor up, the blade hidden inside. He slipped the blade out, swinging it on its pivot. The edge glinted white in the light. He could see how smooth it was. How sharp it was without touching it. He caressed its handle, the small snake print in the wood drawn in black ink. Just like on the back of the leather jacket. On the side of a baseball bat.

Feeling its smooth curved body fit into his palm reminded him of… another of Butch's tools. One that fitted just as nicely. One that was still missing. He hadn't confronted Butch about that. Hadn't confronted him about anything.

Lifting his left hand, he put his fingers to his skin. Pressed them to his cheek. He pulled the skin tight and held up the razor, slotting the handle in between his fingers, the tip of it pointing upwards. He positioned the blade at an angle his body deemed as _right_. The metal touched his cheek. Wet and unyielding. Familiar. He looked up at his reflection. Watched the point of the blade kiss the beginning of his scruff. He felt the usual spreading tightness in his arm, one that meant that his body was simultaneously rejecting and accepting this action. He watched his arm flex. Then felt it slowly release its tension. He steadied himself. Then he dragged the razor on his skin. He felt the edge of the blade sink in. He stopped. Too close. He lifted it away. There was now a short strip of hairless skin on his cheek. Hairless and wet. But no cut. No synthetic blood.

"You hurt yourself and I'm gonna kick your ass." Butch's sleep-roughened voice echoed in the bathroom. In the mirror's reflection, Butch stared at him from the doorway as he ran his fingers through his hair. It looked tousled. Messy. He had pulled on his white shirt but not his jacket and pip-boy.

"You'll try to kick it regardless," he said to Butch's reflection.

"That's cause you let me, tin man." Right. He would. His companion left. Then, reappeared in the doorway with a towel slung over his shoulder. He stared at Harkness in the same way he did while watching him shoot at things. Like he was waiting. Waiting and thinking.

Harkness lowered the razor, replacing it on the edge of the sink. He cupped more water and patted it onto his face. He picked the razor up again. Positioned his fingers around the handle to get a steadier grip. Into the comfortable _rightness _he felt just now. With water dripping down his cheeks, he placed the blade on his jaw. His arm tightened. Then relaxed. Slowly, carefully, he dragged the razor downwards. Diagonally. In one long stroke. This stroke felt more familiar than the last. The motion felt more comfortable. A similar strip of hairless skin emerged from under the blade as he pulled. And when he touched it, the skin felt smoother even though the hair wasn't cleanly shaved. He ran the blade under water. Splashed more of it on his face. Setting the blade on his scruff again, he noted the angle and direction, with the grain and not against. He dragged the blade. Washed the blade again.

He repeated the process. Like routine. He knew he had done this many times. More than a hundred times, probably. But this time felt different. Felt new. The action became more familiar with each stroke. He watched as more and more of his skin got revealed. Watched his face change again. Watched how Butch never moved from his place against the doorjamb, eyes trained on Harkness. He could feel the heat in that gaze. Sliding across the skin on his back. And this… This was the most familiar thing right now. It triggered nerves in his body. Set them off. But somehow, he had gotten used to feeling overwhelmed.

As he wetted his jaw again, he studied his reflection. Studied the last tuft of hair on the left side of his chin. It was that area, the place he tended to cut himself without fail. He lifted the blade and angled it on his chin. His arm tightened. Tighter. Didn't relax. It clamped on him. Cramped up. He could feel it tense.

"You're gonna cut yourself," Butch told him from the doorway. Harkness lowered the razor and shifted his arm. Rolled his shoulder till the tightness eased a little. He continued staring at the patch of hair staring back at him. Again, he placed the razor against the spot. The tightness in his arm seized him again. Butch was right. He was going to cut himself. On the same spot again. He would slice into it like before. Like always. He was still so fucked up that he couldn't shave without cutting himself.

"I know," he finally replied.

In an instant, Butch pushed off the doorjamb. Stepped into the bathroom. Towards him. He watched Butch advance, his footsteps loud on the floor. He stopped just behind him. Instead of asking him to turn, he curled his hand around Harkness' arm, sliding his palm up to his wrist, the splint on his hand scratching his skin. Sliding his other hand up his torso to pull him back. Flush against his chest. He could feel his heart beating on the left side of his back. A hand reached from behind. Reached for his chin and tilted it, exposing that last scruff to the mirror. Marking charged trails on his throat as they cradled his jaw, making his pulse stutter. Heat surrounded him. Engulfed him. Spread through his body. Hot through the cold of the water. Arresting. Burning. Butch tightened his fingers around Harkness' and closed their bodies. Embracing him with a yielding wall of flesh. He nudged Harkness' arm so that it crossed his chest; the blade was on the opposite side of his chin. His thumb brushed the inside of his wrist. And… the tightness in his arm gave way. Ceased. Without protest. They dragged the blade down. Skimmed it over his chin.

And the hair was gone.

Cut off by the blade. Leaving behind a hairless strip of skin. The small scar was visible now, exposed. But there wasn't a cut. Just smooth skin. Harkness exhaled a long stream of breath. Butch smirked at him in the mirror's reflection. He watched the left corner of his own lips tip up slightly. Like a smirk. Like a smile. He rarely saw his own lips twisted like that. Butch let go off him, prying the razor from his fingers. And squeezed his bare shoulder, a wordless demand for him to turn around. It made a charge shoot up his back. Like too much current passing through a wire.

He turned, watching Butch step closer to him. Close enough for him to see the faint freckles on his skin. Close enough to feel his natural warmth radiating to him. Knuckles glided underneath his jaw. Hard. Gentle and rough at the same time. Butch pushed the pad of his thumb up his right cheek, pulling it taut. He raised the blade and skimmed the skin with it. He wiped the blade on the towel that was draped over his shoulder, the cut hairs transferring onto it. Butch was in barber mode now. He hadn't seen it for some time but he could recognise the focus in his eyes. The slight pout of his lips in concentration. The confidence in his touch. The fingers returned to his face. They felt warmer now. So did the exhalations over his hairless jaw. Over his chin. His lips. A wash of heat slithering under his skin. He stared at tiny scar on Butch's nose, following the lines of his features to his eyes, while indulging the feel of his hands on him. So familiar. Yet so different. He… didn't want to get used to this. So that it would feel new and consuming everytime.

Then Butch was closing the razor. He reached around to place it onto the sink; it hit the porcelain. In front of him, the barber had slipped the towel off his shoulder to press onto his jaw. Wiping up his skin. Soaking up the moisture.

"You could've asked," Butch drawled, a ghost of a smirk on his lips.

"You usually do," he replied. Butch paused for a moment before continuing to pat him dry.

"You always say no."

"You said you liked the scruff." Butch paused again. This time, his eyes flicked over to Harkness'. Then lowered to the towel. The hint of the smirk on his face had faded.

"…Yeah." Butch stepped away, taking the towel with him. The blue of his eyes had darkened with some emotion.

"Is there a problem?" he asked, watching his barber walk around him to the sink. His back was a taut line; tension had pulled it tight.

"Y'know…," Butch began, his voice low and rough. "Sometimes…" He ran the tap and soaked the towel. "Sometimes, you don't breathe." He wrung the towel, water spilling out of it. "And your system thing…I don't - We didn't know if you're still there. If you're…" He dropped the towel in the sink. Ran wet streaks through his hair with shaky fingers. "But…" He sucked in a breath. "Your scruff still grows every time I shave it off."

…

_Bullshit._

Something squeezed inside his chest at the admission. He watched Butch. Watched the way he bit down on his lips. Watched as his fingers clenched over the edge of the sink. Watched the tense back. The tense shoulders. The expression on his face. He had seen this expression before. The crease between his brows, the slightly turned down corners of his lips, his eyes narrowed and dark.

Butch looked… lost. He knew because he had seen that look in his own face. Some time ago when he had thought that Butch had – And he…

He didn't like that look on Butch's face.

He didn't stop himself when he reached up. To touch -

Electric. It shot up his arms as he pressed his fingers to skin. Into the juncture between neck and shoulder. Butch stiffened, and almost immediately relaxed in the hold. His shoulders slumped. His head fell forward, exposing the back of his neck. He sighed, the sound making something twist inside him. Harkness could feel the vibration of that sound in his palm. The heat in his hand. The life thrumming there. Firm, solid flesh. His feet shifted forward. His legs melded against Butch's, their heat mingling through their pants. The floor stopped being cold. Something raced through his wires and he watched his fingers brush the strands of Butch's hair. Watched his thumb stroke the flesh. Feeling skin. Smooth. Warm. Feeling the rigid hardness of the bones in his spine. Rubbing. Kneading. Touching.

It was then that he realised that the muscles had tensed under his hand; a different kind of tension stretched across the shoulders. Butch was staring at him in their reflection. The 'lost' look in his eyes had faded into something more… defined. Focused. Heated. Piercing and intense. He recognised this expression too. Had seen it often on his face. The one that looked like Butch wanted to hit him. But he didn't seem to want to hit him now… Did this mean something different? Had it _always_ meant something different? Butch leaned back; his grip tightened on its own – And Butch inhaled sharply. Hissed as he looked away. A heated charge sparked in his navel at that sound. Surged through him. Through his body. To the tips of his toes. He felt them curl. Muscle shifted under his palm. He saw the flush creep up Butch's throat. Saw the Adam's apple bob as he swallowed. Saw his lips part -

"Incoming!" someone yelled.

Then something exploded.


	43. Chapter 43

**Hello, everyone. Thank you for your patience. **

Thank you **Woot** [fanfiction(.)net/u/2573220/Woot69] **aka DellyJelly** my very patient, excellent beta, **lilibombe** my emotion beta and awesome **albertogang** (who drew _**hark and james**_, [albertogang(.)deviantart(.)com/art/hark-and-james-246848834], about to get it on in Electric Stimulation :D )

**lilibombe** painted an amazing, shiver-inducing-in-a-very-good-way portrait of Hark using his _**Eyes of the Machine**_ [lilibombe(.)deviantart(.)com/art/Fallout3-Eyes-of-the-Machine-251413104] to look at Butch.

Now, for something totally different. **deidude34** composed two lovely pieces in tribute to Trouble! Seriously, listening to them just blows my mind. _**Departure**_ [deidude34(.)deviantart(.)com/art/Departure-246438787] and _**Solace **_[deidude34(.)deviantart(.)com/art/Solace-251375549]. They both explore Harkness' emotions.

Thank you for checking the works out.

**Alright. I hope you enjoy this chapter. Thank you very much for reading it.**

(Also, we're two (or three) chapters away till the end.)

* * *

**Trouble  
Chapter 43**

The house shook. The sound of the explosion echoed through the rooms.

Butch cursed and slipped out of his grasp. Wrenched away all traces of heat. Harkness followed him. They scrambled up the ladder while crumbs of plaster rained from the ceiling. Up the ladder, the balcony was in ruins. It had been in ruins before but there was nothing that resembled an attic now. The doors that had been used as a barricade were barely standing. Saint was hunched forward, coughing dust out his mouth, red spit dangling from his lips. He was covered with sand and wood particles. There were scratches on his face and arms, thin red lines of blood streaking through his dust-covered skin. He was trying to grin, his lips shakily turning up at the corners. Butch thumped on his back with a fist.

"What the fuck, Johnny?" Butch shook him hard. Dust particles flew off him. Off his wild hair. Butch let go. Glanced at Harkness over his shoulder, eyes running over his form. Checking to see if he was there. If he was fine. Of course, he was. Saint pulled out his pack of cigarettes and flicked open his lighter. He lit the cigarette between his lips while staring into the flame but looking past that. Looking over the edge of the ruined balcony.

There was group of men below. Five men, a sentry bot and a Gutsy. Talon Company mercenaries. He could tell by the logo of a lopsided, shrivelled up talon on the chestplate of their armour. They were looking upwards. A collection of nasty self-satisfied smirks greeted them. The sentry bot whirred. Its yellow eyes flashed at them from below, scanning the area for targets. It wheeled to station itself in front of Bigtown's entrance, facing Saint's house. The Gutsy hovered closer as well, its metal tentacles twitching in anticipation. The five men attempted to flank them from below.

"Well now, if it isn't the Saint from the Vault," the one with the long scar across his bald scalp sneered, strutting forward. "What? You think you can walk around the Wasteland doing the things that you do and there isn't going to be someone who takes notice?"

"Commander Jabsco? Or Mister Burke?" Saint called out, smoke escaping from his mouth in curls. Behind the cigarette, his teeth were stained red. His eyes were slightly narrowed; they weren't really looking at the men. Somewhere off.

"Both. They're having a tea party back at the fort." The men laughed. The one with the scar waved them to shut up. "You got somethin' that belongs to Burke. He wants it back." Saint's grin widened.

"Does the bot only fire missiles? What's the other arm for?" Below, the scarred asshole grinned back.

"I'll show you." The scarred asshole barked something at the sentry bot. On demand, the bot aimed its minigun arm at them – And they ducked down. Bullets raced over their heads. Hit the barricade behind them. They could hear Dusty yelling something and then there was an eruption of gunfire. The sounds of fighting below increased in volume. The three of them rushed down the ladder.

"You fucker." Butch slapped Saint upside the head. Hard enough that Saint's head swung and the cigarette fell out his mouth. Saint barely responded; the grin on his face didn't waver as he crushed the dropped cigarette with his foot. Some of the dust crumbled over their heads. "You gotta ask them that?"

"We got to make them stop firing missiles," Saint said, striding into his lab. They followed him. "Don't shoot the bots."

"What?" Butch yelled back distractedly as he grabbed his pistol from the table.

"Don't hurt the bots. Bigtown needs them." Saint pushed stuff off the table in his lab. Papers, books, tin cans and bottles dropped to the floor. Harkness grabbed his shirt from the mattress.

"Sure, Nosebleed. There ain't gonna be a Bigtown left by then," Butch drawled, loading up his pistol. He had tilted his head to listen to Saint but his eyes were focused on the front door. They could hear the gunfight outside. Could hear bullets wedge themselves into the planks boarding up their windows. Could hear taunting. Yelling. Sticky's signature screaming. Bigtown was in big trouble.

"Pulse grenades?" Harkness asked, pulling the shirt over his head.

"You used them all, Chiefy." Right. He did. Saint suddenly straightened, eyes bright. Under bits of junk and crap, he pulled out a familiar-looking object. With prongs. White and cylindrical. The subduing tool. Except now it had dusty fingerprints on it. Saint had it. Seeing it made him tense up. But seeing it in Saint's hands instead of dead fucking bastard Zimmer's hands calmed him. Saint shoved past Butch to reach the door. Butch hauled him back while calling him an asshole. Slammed him against the wall. He pried the tool from Saint's fingers - And Harkness snatched it from his hands. Butch made a sound that was a mixture of a growl and a hiss. Hand wound tight around his.

"Tin man –"

"You don't know how to use it," he said, gripping the tool. It felt familiar in his hands. Smooth. Impersonal. He hated it. The grip around his hand tightened. Butch smouldered at him. Frowned at him. Lips pursed. There was promised hostility in his unwavering gaze. Certain fierceness. But the vulnerability was there too. The tinge of worry in his eyes. More apparent than ever. He didn't say anything. He didn't have to. Butch let go. Handed him the pistol. He didn't take it. "I can't shoot straight." Butch sucked in a breath. Grabbing the baseball bat that was on the desk, he shoved it into Harkness' chest.

"Bring it back," he said stiffly. Harkness curled his fingers around the bat. Firm and solid. Unyielding.

"I'll take care of it."

"Fuck the bat," Butch snarled. "Just bring it back." He raised his eyes to Butch's blue.

"I will," he said. From the wall, Saint gave him an appraising look, a sincere grin that meant something he didn't know.

He turned to the door. Behind him, he heard Saint and Butch climb up the ladder again.

Right.

He was fucked.

How the hell was he going to do this? If his system was present now, it would tell him he was being irrational, illogical and that there was slim chance of surviving this. He listened to patterns in the shooting. Honed in on the sound of the minigun whirring, the sound of its bullets hurtling through the air. No pause in the bot's shooting as the bullets flew upwards at the roof of Saint's house where Butch –

What the hell was he waiting for?

He wrenched the door open.

Stepped out.

Into the peripheral vision of the sentry bot.

It cranked its head to face him. Flashed its yellow eyes at him. Scanning him while bullets shot out its arm. Marking him as a threat. Something surged through his wires, his veins. A sharp charge. Fast and cutting. He was… afraid.

Suddenly, the bot stopped shooting. It turned its body to face him.

Bullshit.

He bolted. Swerved out of its shooting range. His bare feet smacking into the sand as he ran. Bullets hit the side of the house. Chasing him. Racing after him. He could hear them hit the walls. Could feel the bullets shooting past his ear. Could feel them disturb the strands of his hair. It wasn't aiming at Saint or Butch now. And that was enough. But he needed to be fast. Close enough. Close enough to subdue it. He skidded. Dropped to the sand to reverse directions. The bullets flew past him. He rolled. Then he pushed himself up. Grappled the bat. And sped to the bot. With one swing, he smashed into its hull. The impact vibrated up his arms. The bot stuttered. The shooting paused. Harkness shoved the subduing tool into its face – it smashed through its flashing yellow visor instead. Bullshit. So much for not hurting bots. He pressed the trigger on the subduing tool. And the blue electric lines razed through the bot. Familiar. Fucked up. The lines bounced within the hole. Danced around the tool jammed in it. The bot screeched in response, weapon arms flailing. Blue sparks shot out of it. Then it stopped. Yellow eyes dimmed. Its motor stopped running, the sound of its whirring faded away into nothing. Deactivated. That took much shorter time than it did with androids.

He looked up. Over the hull of the bot, the scarred asshole had his gun pointed at Harkness. The fucker grinned at him. He saw something shiny sail from above. It glinted in the light as it fell. It crashed on the ground. Then he couldn't see anymore. Because the place was covered in flames. The Talons screamed. Green flames. Greenish, turquoise flames rose from the ground in a split second then continued burning into greenish white flames. He had never seen fire take on that colour before. Nothing in the Wastes resembled this. Johnny Saint's fire.

That was when he heard clanging behind him. He whirled around. To the Gutsy aiming the flamer at him.

"What's the matter you pansy ass Pinko? Getting tired?" He saw the beginnings of a flame on its nozzle. And dived out of the way. He could feel the flame singeing him. He writhed in the sand, putting out the flame on his sleeve. He rolled over the bat and swung it up. Knocked the Gutsy's flamer-tentacle with it. It retaliated. Aimed the plasma-tentacle at him instead. The plasma jerked away when someone shot at it from above. Flailed out of his proximity. He lunged. And without reining in his strength, he swung the bat into the Gutsy. Crunched it into its body. The Gutsy flew across to the side of the road, bounced once and skidded to a stop. The flame burst out of its tentacle in short uncontrollable spurts. Deactivated.

"Holy fucking shit…" He could hear that exclamation clearly because the gunshots had stopped. Bullshit. Bigtown had stopped shooting too. What the hell were they doing? He tightened his grip on the bat, noting that there wasn't a dent in it. Turned to look. And stepped back. The Talons' guns hadn't lowered but they stared open-mouthed at him. Saint's fire had died. And the Talons were down to three. The armour on the scarred asshole was charred. There was soot on his face. Red on his arms where the flesh had cooked. Still too alive. "What the fuck are you?" the scarred asshole asked, incredulous.

He raised the bat in response. Because,_ hell_, if they were going to shoot, he was going to fight back. He took a step forward.

"Retreat," the asshole uttered, taking a step back. "Fucking retreat!" he yelled, spinning around so fast he almost stumbled. The two remaining Talons ran after him. Harkness slowed his steps. He kicked into something. And he looked down at his feet.

There was a body on the ground. A human shaped pile of ash. Posed in the last moment of life.

He choked. Something seized him. There was a deep gnawing pang in his body. An intangible ache flowed to the tips of his fingers. Pain so familiar, he faltered.

_Butch?_

Immediately, a soft buzz started in the back of his neck. Raced through his head. Through the contours of his skull. Filled it. Charged. And suddenly, something opened up inside. He felt tiny threads of charges reaching out for him. Tearing through his head. Demanding. Nudging. And his system…

It burst into life behind his eyelids. A screen of all-consuming brightness. Blinding. Blue.

Spilled into him. Told him_ R53 G148 B158._

Then it was _gone_.

The threads disappeared. Leaving silence in his head.

There was a hand curled around his cheek. On his neck where his pulse was. Warm and real. Routine. But better than routine. Alive.

And he came back to himself. Staring into another blue. R53 G148 B158 like his system had said.

"_Harkness?" _

Back then, he had kept calling up instances of Butch in his mind. Over and over. Because he had wanted to see him. But his system couldn't understand it. It gave him ghosts instead. Ghosts that appeared and haunted him. Disappeared when he turned around. Some form of imagination he didn't know he had.

He just… hadn't realised that he was still expecting to see ghosts. Even though, clearly, Butch was here and had been here, he had still thought…

He reached up, ran his thumb along the pulse on a wrist. Feeling it beat on his skin. Strong. Fast. Alive. And that… This…

Ghosts couldn't do this.

"Butch." His voice was hoarse. He inhaled sharply when those hands pulled him closer. He saw the spot of blood on his lower lip; Butch had bitten down on it. He saw the open vulnerability in his eyes. Unguarded. Unhidden. "Butch…" He stared at him. Pulled him in to stare at him. To feel the life against his body. To feel his warmth. To feel him breathe. He saw Butch's eyes dart down to his lips. And something caught at his throat. Something he couldn't swallow. It stole his breath. Made his pulse quicken. "All the positions you play," he whispered, because they were sharing a secret now. "I can, too." Butch frowned at him.

"What you talkin' about?" he asked in the same tone, his words filling their shared space. Fingers kneaded his pulse. Harkness took a deep breath, slid his hand off the warmth and pushed the baseball bat to Butch's chest. Tasting the life there with the brush of his fingers.

"Little league," he answered. Turning back, he felt a certain lightness on his shoulders. Felt something settle within him. Felt an intangible tension fade inside. He wheeled the sentry bot back to Saint.

The clean-up took most of the day. Saint had scattered the ashes in the sky then stayed in his lab. Below, Bigtown was mostly unharmed. Their huge barricade had proved to be almost impenetrable. The plasma and fire had melted holes in it but it still stood. Bittercup and Kimba patched up those holes while Red and Timebomb patched up Dusty, Flash, Shorty, Pappy and Sticky. Most of them had been burned in some way. Dusty was shot in his shoulder but he stood at his post, still on alert. Sticky had somehow twisted his ankle when he was running away. He limped around now, abnormally fast, chattering with a Med-X-hazed Flash. Bigtown was brightly lit. For the first time, it was not only illuminated by the weak light by the bridge but by lights hooked onto generators. It was present. A part of the living Wastes.

Noisy too. But silent in his head.

Today's excitement should have drained him. He knew he should be exhausted. But he didn't feel like succumbing to sleep right now. That short sting of his system greeting him was unexpected but not unwelcome. It had felt like… meeting an old friend, if only for a moment. He still didn't know what he was. But he felt strangely in control now, in some undefined way.

The Wastes stretched out in front of him. He hadn't been up here since he awoke. Saint's makeshift low wall of artfully put up doors was destroyed beyond repair. The broken doors were back in the house, in Saint's lab awaiting some form of transcendence. Just like the sentry bot and the Gutsy. The debris and dust had been cleared, leaving behind a flat balcony without a railing. But it wasn't empty here. There were other items in the corner. A mattress and a wooden crate with a box of 9mm bullets on it. In the distance, he could see the hints of the remains of slaver country. Both Paradise Falls and the Germantown Police Headquarters. He could see their barrenness. Their emptiness. Their lack of life. Lack of light. Apparently, Saint had set fire to dead fucking bastard Zimmer's lab and boarded it up. Good fucking riddance. He trailed his eyes overhead at the sky now, watching it watch him.

A low, soft whistle reached his ears. In a familiar tune. He hadn't heard it since he woke up. He tilted his head to listen more attentively. To note the familiar blue of that jumpsuit. The familiar black of the leather jacket. But it was the glint of metal that caught his eye. Twirling and spinning. Around, under and over skilful fingers. A blade. And a buckle following its motion.

"You searched my pockets," he blurted. His voice was raspy. Hoarse. And he took a deep breath. Because watching this scene… hurt. Made him ache inside. The whistling stopped.

"You stole my toothpick," was the reply, laced with emotion he couldn't decipher.

"Don't leave your shit lying around, then," he said, his voice tapering to softness when Butch reached his side. The metal twirling held his attention – both their attentions. He watched it move. Watched it fly around his fingers. The buckle trailed behind. Following. Chasing. Saint had asked him some time ago, why he hadn't given it back. Now, he thought he might know. Because this felt _right_. Because Butch wouldn't disappear now, taking the toothpick with him.

"Wolfgang found it in Paradise Falls," he said, watching the blurred motion. "Under a human-shaped pile of ash."

The movement stopped.

"Fuck…" was a harsh exhale. "You really thought I was dead." Yes. He did. For a long time. He didn't respond. Because he knew that Butch had thought the same of him in the 87 days he had to shave his scruff off.

He saw the fingers tighten around toothpick. Saw the flash of vulnerability in his eyes. He watched Butch turn away, his profile lined by the light. He was thinking. Again. Deeply. He walked away but didn't take the ladder. Instead, he sat on the mattress. Leaned back on his hands, legs bent at the knees. Looking not out of place at all, even with the jacket zipped all the way up. Looking almost at home here.

The toothpick was still in his hand but he wasn't twirling it, just caressing it with his thumb. He placed it down and looked up at Harkness expectantly. Patted the mattress next to him. A wordless invitation to come to him, to sit with him. His feet started walking. He leaned down to sink into the mattress on Butch's left side. His companion shifted. To make space for him. To inch into his space at the same time. Pressed up against his side, he was a line of heat that seeped into his body. Butch lifted his left arm where the pip-boy was, bringing it close to him. He tapped buttons on it.

"Wanna know what I did while… we were dead?"


	44. Chapter 44

**Hello, everyone. I am very, very sorry for this late chapter. I thank you for your patience and understanding. Thank you especially to Woot aka DellyJelly [dellyjelly(.)deviantart(.)com], lilibombe [lilibombe(.)deviantart(.)com] and albertogang [albertogang(.)deviantart(.)com]. **Wooty beta-ed this for me - but any mistakes left are my own. (She writes awesome smut you might wanna read.)

I also want to link you to beautiful art. **Odin Marshall** kindly drew this piece which features a smiling Harkness: odinmarshall(.)tumblr(.)com/post/8971412095

**Koito**'s tension-filled art on Trouble chapter 39: koito(.)deviantart(.)com/art/Trouble-Ch-39-255850870

A new composition, _Activated_, from **deidude34**: deidude34(.)deviantart(.)com/art/Activated-High-Quality-254484966 If the flash isn't working, you can download the song. Also, he reuploded high quality versions of his music.

**Hazgarn** also made this screencap: 13(.)photobucket(.)com/albums/a289/Hazgarn/ButchHark(.)png :D (Please zoom in.)

If I somehow missed you, I apologise. And please inform me so I can put you in.

**Once again, thank you very much for your patience, understanding and support. I truly appreciate it. This might be the **_**trickiest**_** chapter I have ever had to write. I can only say I tried my best. I hope you enjoy it. Thank you. :)**

* * *

**Trouble  
Chapter 44**

He watched the pip-boy approach, its screen glowing in the dark. He noted the scratches on its body. The irregular edges where the gadget had chipped. The Geiger counter's twitching hands. He was familiar with the gadget's robustness; it had smacked against the side of his head during a pointless fight some time ago… a long time ago. He trailed his eyes up the arm, tracing the folds of a black leather sleeve. Up to where the collar was hiding Butch's neck, touching just on the swell of his lower lip. Past where the light lined his profile, he could see the ruins of slaver country.

"You and Saint took down Paradise Falls," he said. Butch looked up at him from the pip-boy. The pupils of his eyes had contracted with the light.

"Yeah... We got up in their faces with knives and shit. Johnny burned it down." Not unexpected. Damned Vault kids.

Butch stared at him. The gaze a little more intense. A little sharper. "Tin man," he said, voice low and threatening. He watched Butch's eyes. Saw his brows dipping downwards into a slight frown. "I'm still standing y'know. Sitting…Whatever." Butch huffed. "Here." He didn't answer. Didn't need to. He could see him here. Feel him. _Here. _He watched Butch watch him, his pupils starting to dilate as he moved away from the light. The gaze ran down his face. Down to his body to where his hand was trapped between them. Then the blue gaze travelled back up to his face. Watched him from beneath dark lashes - asking without saying anything. Harkness answered by lifting his right hand. And placing it behind them so that his arm wasn't in the way. So that Butch… could get closer like he seemed to want to… He did. He shifted closer. Pressed into his side a little more. Pushed the pip-boy strapped arm nearer. He caught the smell of leather. Of sand. Smoke. Clean skin. Of _Butch_. He could feel that heat spilling over his skin. His chest. The side of his throat. His own hand behind them felt significantly colder. Butch smirked. When he turned back to the pip-boy, he cringed. Harkness followed the gaze to the screen of the gadget.

Bullshit.

Familiar. So _fucking _familiar.

The ramblings of a sick bastard.

_'Artificial persons that think and feel and do what we program them to? Think non-artificial. There are more than enough resources here.'_

"Hacked Zimmer's terminal," Butch explained."His logs are full of shit." He reached his right hand over the screen, its light flooding the underside of his sleeve. With his thumb, he scrolled the wheel on the left side of the pip-boy and a new note appeared. There was a paragraph –it appeared to be some kind of shopping list. He could read '_one sensor module'_, '_one bonesaw'_ and '_two surgical tubes_' listed under '_one child'_. Fucked up. Butch flicked the wheel to another note. This note was part rambling, part precision, all bullshit. Whining about the Institute. Whining about the Wastes. Whining about freedom as though the bastard understood what that meant. He could see that Zimmer kept tabs on the Meatheads. Kept track of what each Meathead fetched for him. Tracked them like they were his pets. They were. Another of Zimmer's notes listed the steps for de-humanisation; the first step was severing control of the legs to prevent runaways. That was why HP-17 gained his semi-metallic physique. There were issues about whether to leave the voice box intact or rip it out. About tapping into the central nervous system and re-wiring that. _'These hybrids will most definitely cause a stir - lure A3-21 out of hiding. I've tracked him this far. He's out there, somewhere. I'm sure he will return. Till then, these subjects look promising.'_

The satisfying sight of Zimmer's brains and blood spattered against the wall replayed itself in his head. The satisfying sound of the gunshot echoing behind it. He recalled that it hadn't been him who took that shot. It was Butch. Good fucking riddance.

He trailed his eyes down the list to the next note. And stilled.

'_Harkness.'_

He glanced up at his companion who was staring back at him. Instead of explaining why his name was there, Butch pushed his arm to him, offering his pip-boy. Forcing him to... use it. He held that gaze for some seconds, maybe minutes, before returning to the gadget. Lifting his right hand from behind, he carefully slotted it through the space between them, looping his arm around Butch's. He placed his left hand on the other side of the gadget. Ran his thumb over the wheel on the left of the screen. Felt the grooves in it. Just like he had observed Butch do, he scrolled the wheel. Listened to the soft click as it moved away from Zimmer's note. To his name.

It was a surgery log - Pinkerton's surgery log. Did Butch hack the doctor's terminal too?

The note detailed his 'waking up' after surgery. His disorientation. Confusion. These lasted only until he was given a weapon. He then proceeded to destroy the nest of Mirelurks in the broken bow single-handedly. He could function without any aches. Without any weaknesses. Without any problems. He might have felt like something wasn't right then. Might have felt too rigid in his body. Might have felt constructed. But he had ignored it.

He read about his facial reconstruction. About his wiring and re-wiring. About his reflexes. About his planted memories and his buried ones. About how his body wasn't able to accommodate certain synthetic replacements. About how Pinkerton understood why Zimmer would want him back; he'd want him back too if he lost such a special machine. He saw photos of himself. Before Harkness. Photos of A3-21. And he didn't... He felt...

He paused for a moment to shift his shoulders and close his eyes. It felt like there was a lot of information to process. And he didn't have his system here. He could only feel an unprocessed mess building. But he knew all this. Had been there when... Why was this...

He opened his eyes. Moved to the next note.

'_We've a little assignment from the Commonwealth. A very important slave escaped into the Wasteland. Well, it's not exactly a slave. It's what they call an android. A kind of synthetic man.'_

He had seen this – No. He had heard this before. It was the message relayed on the holotape that Butch had found in Sister's locker. The one with Sister's name on it. He scrolled the wheel again. Another note appeared. It was a plea for help on a runaway android's behalf. He was that runaway. And this was Preston's holotape. He had listened to it in the Rivet City clinic. He scrolled onto the next note. Read about an android that was looking for a doctor to do some kind of surgery. He… hadn't heard this one before. The following transcript was about an android catcher who had gone rogue. He hadn't heard this one either. Hadn't heard the one where the android was searching for allies. Hadn't heard the one with slavers gunning each other to be the one to find him. Hadn't heard the next transcript. Or the next one. Or the next. He didn't recognise most of them. Hadn't encountered them. Didn't even know they existed. Where the hell did Butch get these? Then the list came to a note entitled: Return to Synth.

That phrase. He remembered it. Remembered it from the holotape Sister had given to him just before he left Rivet City. The tape had stayed in his pocket for only a short while before he kept it in the bag he brought from the ship; there wasn't enough space for both the holotape and the leather pouch which held Butch's toothpick. As a result, he hadn't listened to it. He scrolled to the note to see that the screen was empty. There was no transcript there. Just a bar telling him that it was an audio log. Butch leaned towards him and pressed a button. The pip-boy crackled.

And he heard his voice.

"My designation is A3-21. I'm a synthetic humanoid from the Commonwealth, and I'm here at Rivet City, where I've already had my face altered to look like someone else. I'm still getting used to the sound of my new voice, but soon I won't even remember what I used to sound like. This will be a final testimony of the man I once was... and still am, for the moment. I'm about to undergo a memory transfer." His voice hitched in the recording. "When this is all over, I will be someone else." There was a loud click. And the recording ended.

...

This.

He remembered this.

His words. His final testimony. And he was right.

He didn't really remember what he used to sound like.

He realised that he was gripping Butch's wrist. Tight. His fingers unclenched themselves reluctantly. He… felt like he was slipping away. Butch lifted his eyes from their hands to Harkness. The gaze darted restlessly across his skin, between his eyes. Searching for something. Peering. Intently. Asking him if he was fine without asking. He didn't know what to say. He looked at their hands instead. Warm. Wound around his fingers. Strong. Firm. Rough. Hands undeniably human. He could understand this. Calm in contrast to the messy nothing inside him.

"That's a lot of transcripts," he said and his companion replied with a huff of breath. It wasn't what he wanted to say but it was the most logical thought he had at the moment.

"Yeah..." his companion replied after some time. "What else am I supposed to do here? Work on my needlepoint or somethin'?"

"You shot at Bigtown." He looked up Butch who was staring at him.

"What? You gonna fight them while you sleep?"

"Bigtown?" he asked. "Bigtown was attacking?" Butch smirked. Reached towards him. Plunged his fingers into his hair. Ran his hand through it. Gently. Roughly. Lightly yanking the strands. Leaving pulses of heat where they walked. A touch that was simultaneously soothing, burning and arresting. So familiar. And illogically logical.

"Nah…" he sighed. "They can't attack shit." He saw the smirk widen. Butch tucked his arms around himself. Stared at him. Into him. "Your system thing… is it back?"

"…I have no idea," he answered. Because it had been back just now when he saw that human-shaped pile of ash. Just for a moment. Now, it was gone again. Absent. And all he felt was a disconnect. With his system. With himself. Because everything he had read or listened to…it felt like another life. It felt unfamiliar. He wasn't the same anymore...

He felt… drained.

Butch lay down on the mattress. A motion that slithered beside him. He trailed his eyes up at Harkness. Called him with his gaze. And he obeyed. Slid down onto the mattress with the constructed rigidity his body had. Without any form of the fluidity that Butch had. He sank into the mattress and returned to his companion's heat. That arresting burning grappled onto him as he stared up at the sky above. Black. With hints of blue in the darkness. He didn't know if he wanted to know its shade in RGB. His head was still running down a long list of transcripts. Of which, only two he had listened to. What if… If he hadn't woken up... If he didn't...

He closed his eyes.

And he opened them to sunlight. Morning. The sky was a shade of bright he couldn't define in RGB. There was something there; he could feel it. But he couldn't find it. Couldn't touch the disconnect.

He turned his face away from the sky to look at Butch. His companion was asleep, his lips and nose darkened in the shadow of his popped up collar. He watched him sleeping undisturbed for some time before reaching out; he didn't stop himself this time. His fingers reached to trace the scar on his cheek. The scar Sister had given to him. The brush of skin on his felt… hot where the sunlight fell. Smooth. Electric. Intense. It tugged something in his chest. Made something settle. Made everything a little haywire inside. Made perfect sense to him. Butch stirred at the touch, eyelids twitching. But didn't wake. The pip-boy was still above his head. Screen dark and blank. Asleep like its owner.

He sat up. Carefully. Slowly. Below, Bigtown was quiet. When Harkness reached the ladder, he glanced back at Butch. Still sleeping. He climbed down to the house. He could hear Saint tinkering with something in his lab, but he didn't head there. His eyes rested on the bag he carried from Rivet City; it was leaning against the wall in the front room. Right. The holotape Sister gave him. He wanted to listen to it again. His final testimony. He picked up the bag, feeling the frayed threads in its seams. Untying the sash that pulled it together, he opened it.

It was full of holotapes.

Countless rigid white shapes peered up at him from inside the bag. These must be the tapes that originally held the transcripts. The ones that Butch had transferred into his pip-boy. He saw Sister's tape, marked by his name. Saw Preston's tape. He saw a variety of names, notes, traces. One had black smudges on it. Another was addressed to '_M. Brown, Megaton_'. He saw the one he wanted. Pulled it out. Rubbed his thumb over the strip of pasted yellowed paper. The scrawled message on it requested to '_Return to Synth_'. He picked the whole bag up. Carried it to Saint's lab; the Vault kid would most likely have a tape player lying around somewhere. As he turned into the open doorway, he saw that Saint was polishing the sentry bot's head. Before he could even open his mouth, Saint answered his question.

"They're empty. All of the tapes." Saint tapped one of the sentry bot's intact yellow eyes with a fingernail. "The snake erased them."

Bullshit.

What the hell. Empty? He lifted the holotape still in his hands. It was supposed to contain his final testimony. It was gone now. Why would he…

But…

Last night, he read it in Butch's pip-boy. So, it wasn't gone. Just… re-located. All these holotapes. His steps from there and then to here and now were integrated into a system that wasn't his own. In someone else's pip-boy. _Butch's system_.

A spike of energy rushed through him at that realisation. Fuck. He suddenly felt… uncomfortable with the way he accessed the pip-boy even though he had been clearly invited to do so. He never… had access to any other system other than his own. It was a freedom that he didn't know was possible to find. A kind of freedom he'd never been given before. And Butch let him access him like that… all those transcripts -

"Pain," Saint's voice startled him from his thoughts. He looked at the Vault kid as he pushed up his goggles. "How come you feel pain?" He faced Harkness. "These bots… Meatheads… they don't give a fucking damn when they get hit. But you… you're programmed for it?"

"I'm not programmed to feel pain. Wasn't." No android is. "But…Zimmer," he said, the name curled into a snarl. "He wanted to see the effects of certain tools on synths. Wanted to see if I reacted. Or deactivated. If I… hurt." And that made his system aware that he should feel that pain. "I programmed myself to feel it, Saint."

"Huh." Saint inhaled deeply, eyes faraway. He exhaled as he continued speaking. "Pain is intense. Other things…can feel just as intense. You know this, don't you?" Then he turned sharply to Harkness. Stared at him with his penetrating gaze. The one that seemed to shoot past his skin, wires, metal to see into him… his…soul, as though he had one. "Zimmer. Eulogy. A whole fucking army of android slavers…" Saint grinned. "I can be a little worse than them." He narrowed his eyes slightly. "You're not gonna gimme reason to prove it. Are you?" Saint blinked, then; his pale eyes darted upwards. To the roof where Butch was. It wasn't a question. And he wasn't required to answer. But he shook his head, anyway.

In front of him, the penetrating gaze lessened its intensity and Saint pulled a packet of cigarettes from his pocket. Offered it to him as an acknowledgement to the promise and agreement. Harkness stepped into the lab, deposited the bag on the desk and reached out for the packet. He pulled out a stick of cigarette as Saint held up his lighter. Lit the cigarette for him.

"Those tapes weren't easy to find," Saint said, waving a hand at the bag. "We didn't have markers on our map to follow. That's why we took so long. _You're_ not easy to find." Saint grinned at him. "But you're an android hunter, right, Chiefy? Think you can find yourself?"

He glanced at the bag of holotapes. _Empty_ holotapes.

Right.

He knew where to start looking.


	45. Chapter 45

**Hello, everyone. Another late chapter - I am sorry; I tried my best. I thank you for your patience and understanding. ****I truly appreciate it. ****Thank you especially to Woot aka DellyJelly [dellyjelly(.)deviantart(.)com], lilibombe [lilibombe(.)deviantart(.)com] and albertogang [albertogang(.)deviantart(.)com]. Thank you Wooty for beta-ing. Any mistakes left are my own. (I have been out of the loop for some time so if there's someone I missed, do tell.)**

**I hope you enjoy it. Take care, everyone. Thank you for reading. **

* * *

**Trouble  
Chapter 45**

It was warm in here with the streaks of daylight on his bare back. It rested on the top of his head. Down his spine. Between his shoulder blades. He watched the light flitting through the cracks in the roof of the trailer. Watched their patterns on the floor. The body behind him stirred. And he turned to look over his shoulder down at his still sleeping companion. Looked on as Butch nuzzled the folded Tunnel Snake jacket underneath his head. His jumpsuit was unzipped to his waist revealing the white shirt underneath. His bare right arm was cushioning his head while his left arm, still encased in its sleeve, lay across Harkness' lap. Harkness sat hunched over that arm, over the pip-boy. He was supposed to be reading the notes but… he was distracted. Again. He trailed his eyes over the person behind him. Followed the lines of light that touched him. That traced the edge of his jaw. The bridge of his nose. The length of his throat. The slow curve of his parted lips. He faced the entrance of the trailer. Looked outside at the Wastes. They were somewhere along the route the pip-boy had marked for them. Two days away from Bigtown.

He could still see the goodbyes in his head. Flash and Pappy had given him similar grins as they patted him on the back. Bittercup gave him a case of 5.56mms. Kimba gave him a hard stare before saluting him like Dusty did. Shorty nodded from where he was fixing the roof of the clinic. Red and Timebomb gave him some Stimpaks which he took; they weren't for himself. Sticky followed them till they reached the outskirts of the town, telling a ridiculous tale about 'Meat Chief and the Butch-man in the Wastes'. Saint walked close behind with his perpetual grin and sand caking the side of his face; the Vault kids had said goodbye to each other by rolling around on the ground. Saint had smiled at him, a familiar, sincere grin as the reformed sentry bot and Gutsy watched them from the town entrance. As they walked past the sign, he saw that someone had scratched out 'We're ripe for picking' under 'Welcome to Bigtown' and written 'We're trained killers. Like our bots.' He felt a deep ache swirl in his chest, then.

Out here, the Wastes hadn't changed but it was different. Sharper. Colder. A magnified version of the Talons' attack on Bigtown except he didn't know where the hostiles were until they were almost upon them. He had already been bitten, slashed, punched, slapped, shot at and even spat on by raiders, dogs, bloatflies, mercenaries and radroaches. Yesterday, they were assaulted by a pack of Mirelurks. One had managed to slam him into the side of a cliff, tearing gashes in his back. He lashed out at it barehanded. Pulled out the rifle. Hit the rest with a haphazard spray of bullets. When the echoes of the shots faded, he looked to his feet. The Lurk that had slammed into him lay on the ground. Its top shell was some meters away, chunks of meat still attached to its underside. This was… reckless. Dangerous. Uncoordinated. He felt like he had no control over the situation. Over anything, really. And his system wasn't helping even as it buzzed through his wires. Was this what surviving felt like?

A loud whine cut into his thoughts. He swiped Butch's pistol off the floor and aimed at –

A molerat.

Just a molerat.

Its black eyes passed over him, ignoring him and the pistol still pointed at it. The creature joined its family as they nosed the remains of last night's leftovers outside. Butch's pip-boy strapped arm pulled a little and fingertips brushed against his navel. His own fingers twitched around the pip-boy, around the pistol. Lifting his finger off the trigger, he lowered the gun onto the floor. Slow. Careful. Inside, he felt the rush of energy attempt to settle. Another backward glance told him that his companion was still asleep. He pulled his gaze away to the pip-boy, where the Vault boy smiled up at him.

It told him Butch's statistics. His heart rate: _56 beats per minute_, body temperature: _37° C_, hunger level:_ 312_ on the _FOD_ scale, hydration level: _150_ on the _H__2__0_ scale and radiation level: _94_ on the _RAD_ scale. The gadget told him that Butch was calm now. Calm and sleeping. Breathing evenly. He repositioned his fingers to have a firmer grip on the gadget. Harkness hadn't known how to ask for it, at first. Didn't know what to say, how to gesture, how to ask if he could… access _him_. He didn't say anything in the end. Butch just slumped down beside him. Thrust the gadget at him. He wondered what the hell he was supposed to offer in return. Could he offer anything Butch might want? He ran his thumb across the scratch on the screen.

...Could Butch feel this? When he accessed him like this, could he feel it? Was it a violation? Invasion? Did he leave his traces? Marks? Fingerprints?

But he was already here, wasn't he? In the pip-boy, his steps were laid out in some semblance of a logical order that wasn't chronological or alphabetical. Butch even had his written logs from the Rivet City security terminal. Had his medical records from Doc Preston's terminal. He might have gotten - _stolen_ these notes way before they reached Bigtown. Probably way before that as well.

He scrolled the wheel of the pip-boy. Down the list. The transcripts. The logs. The one audio log with the sound of his voice. He remembered everything – his steps, himself. He could piece together a version of himself. A version that was the android hunter. The runaway android. He just... couldn't seem to reach that version anymore. His system wasn't attempting to reach him either. Hadn't tried to since its short visit with a burned body on the ground. It only hummed in him; he could feel it. He moved past all those notes of him. Moved instead to those notes that were purely _Butch_. _His_ steps, paths, fingerprints in a series of notes, passwords, maps and codes. A journey of information that mapped him out.

He read every single Vault Behaviour Record listed. He read every single password - from 'Nosebleed's Locker Password' to 'Overseer's Terminal Password'. He read every 'Tunnel Snake Mission' which contained vague objectives like 'Steal key' and nothing else. There was also a 'Note from Ma', which he scrolled over every single time. The notes that caught his attention the most were the logs classified with 'Rebel' in their titles. Some were photos of rude graffiti written along the walls, across posters and bulletins. The rest of the notes were multiple entries of Vault security codes, security rosters, security patrol routes, jail cell passwords, Vault casualties and deceased lists. In the 'Rebel' logs, there were no objectives. No battle transcripts. Nothing resembling strategic plans. But he knew what this was. There was trouble in the Vault that Butch had been a part of. He had fought. Had rebelled. Had left. Harkness could relate to that.

"Seriously." He stilled when the sleep-roughened voice reached his ears. _Bullshit. _He hadn't noticed his companion stirring awake. He felt a little awkward now that he had been caught peering so intently at the pip-boy. Butch turned away from his jacket, body flowing into a supine position. Open. Relaxed. The shirt stretched across his chest, showed the definitions of his muscles as it hiked up around his ribs. Showed the purpling bruise on his flesh. He ran his right hand through his hair, and then slipped it underneath his shirt to rest on his stomach; it rose and fell with his breaths. The sleepy gaze travelled up to his face. He licked his lips before speaking. "You like that thing more than you like me."

"It makes more sense than you do," he answered. Butch shifted his body a little closer as the fingers in the left hand closed around Harkness' knee. Just touching. His Adam's apple bobbed when he swallowed.

"But it ain't got all the answers."

"You don't either." Butch's lips started to curl into a smirk.

"Try me." He pulled his hand from under his shirt and pushed himself up. A knee brushed against his back as he moved; the flash of its heat raced across his skin. The pip-boy strapped arm lifted a little higher. Closer. So was Butch, a comfortable burn pressed against him. He felt fingers skim up his back, the coarse material from the splint following behind. A slow trail of rough heat slithered upwards. Up to where the bandage was. He could feel the pad of a thumb trace its edges. Could feel fingers dig into a corner of the traced rectangle, starting to peel it off. The stickiness pulled his skin. The cool air kissed his now exposed wound, mingling with the hot breaths blowing over it. The touch stroked slowly along the length of the gash. Dragged an acute sting through his flesh, up his spine. "That hurt?" Butch whispered; the roughness in his voice hadn't gone away.

"…Something like that," he answered. It hurt. But it also felt…electric. Intense. Felt like every wire was twisting around themselves with the sudden rush of mess inside. He saw his toes curl at the sensation. Harkness shifted his shoulders to ease some tension. Butch hummed in response, the fingers never letting up from where they marked the wound. The knee crossed his back again as he hauled their bag close. Probably to get more bandages or antiseptic; they both knew Harkness didn't need any of it. He looked at pip-boy in his hands. "How the hell did you get into my security terminal?"

A chuckle made its way to his ears.

"Tunnel Snake," Butch answered with pride. He could hear the smirk in his voice. "Told you I could hot wire tin cans." Right. He had said that once.

"Did you…" Harkness looked at him over his shoulder. "…hot wire me?"

"Nah." The touch paused. His voice deepened. "You ain't a tin can."

"Yeah?" His own voice was quiet.

"Sure." The fingers resumed their touching. Kneading. "You're, y'know…an asshole." Right. Somehow, he hadn't expected that and yet it wasn't unexpected. "Sometimes you're badass. Most times…" The touch stuttered. Stopped along his spine. "You're an asshole even when you're badass." Before he could respond, the pads of his fingers ran down his back, slipped off his skin. The burning stayed. Over his shoulder, Butch stared at him, eyes narrowed and dark behind the curl of hair. He seemed to be… frustrated. He could see the tension in his posture. Could feel it in the arm on his lap. He could also see the flicker of vulnerability in his eyes. Then the blue pulled away as fingers grazed his wound once more. He jerked at the sharp sting. Butch pasted on a new bandage over the wound. "Hey, you think the ship misses you?" he asked lightly. The darkness in his eyes lifted a little. And Harkness couldn't figure him out.

"I have no idea."

It turned out that Rivet City did miss him.

As soon as he stepped on the bridge, Lana barrelled into him. Hard enough that he had to take a step back to balance. She was soft against him. Warm. Comfortable. She didn't embrace Butch. Punched him in the arm instead. Butch _winced_. And that… He found that he missed Lana. She asked him why the hell he was gone for so long in the same breath she asked him why the hell he didn't take a whole year off. Without waiting for an answer, she directed them to the middle deck. She opened the door to the stairwell –

He was instantly hit with certain familiarity. At the sight of metal walls, rusted bolts, dim lights. The smell of the air. The sound of the ship settling. A deep feeling coursed through him. He was… He didn't realise that he could form such a strong intangible bond with a place like this. They walked down the stairwell, through the halls. When they reached the Weatherly Hotel, they found Vera and Seagrave having supper. Vera abandoned the meal and pried the bag from his grip. She hugged him, hugged _them_. She was beaming; her smile was genuine without a trace of her usual flirtatious charm. For once, Seagrave was happy to see him too. She handed him the key to Zimmer's room and told him it belonged to him now. Because apparently, he had been kicked out of his own bed. He took the key because sick fucking bastard Zimmer was finally, _truly_ dead.

"You've been gone for some time," Lana said, looking up at him. "Think you can still be Security Chief Harkness, again?" She squeezed his arm. "I'll see you in the tower, alright?" With that, Lana dismissed him and walked off. Left them in the dim hallway. Vera returned to Seagrave because he had complained about the food being cold. The clock on the wall told him that it was close to two in the morning. In the dimness, Butch's pupils looked blown out. He was tired. Exhausted. He could tell from his gaze, from the way he leaned against the wall.

Slowly, he held out the key to Zimmer's – No, _his_ room. It glinted in the palm of his hand. Butch looked down at his outstretched palm. Harkness parted his lips to speak… and didn't.

He had wanted to say something. Ask him, at least. To… stay. With him. Because he didn't want… he wanted… He -

Butch reached out. Curled his hands around Harkness', balling it into a fist with the key inside it.

"I can get into places on my own." He smirked. "Chief Harkness." That name spread across his lips in a very persuasive way. Much like the smirk.

"…Right."

In the tower, he found that somebody had indeed taken his bed. His footlocker too. There were mattresses strewn on the floor to accommodate more inhabitants. Lana grasped his arm and manoeuvred him to the terminals and files on the table. She showed him the ship's security logs. Filled him in on what had happened since he'd been gone. There weren't many attacks; almost none compared to Bigtown. But those attacks the ship had faced were caused by Talon Company mercenaries. What the hell did they want? Were they still looking for Johnny Saint? The biggest development was the security cameras on the bridge, facing out into the Wastes. 'A trial run' Lana had explained. Because most of the guards had been avoiding night shifts on the bridge. The thought reminded him of those night watches he shared with Butch. He wondered if they could still do that. Wondered if they could do other things too. Wondered what he might actually be asking for. He stood up from the terminal.

"You're done?" Lana asked. She glanced at the terminal; he was done with approximately only three-quarters of the data. "Are you okay?" she asked again, concerned. He had listened to Butch's non-verbal conversations for so long that hearing the question aloud surprised him.

"I'm fine," he replied. And he realised that he meant it.

When he left the bridge tower, it was 0347 according to the clock on the security room wall. The ship was quiet. Not like Bigtown. But quiet, nonetheless. He rounded the halls. Followed the patrol routes. Re-familiarised himself with the corridors and directions. He re-mapped the ship. It felt like he was coming back to himself. Picking up where he had somehow disappeared from. He felt a little less disconnected. When he reached his room, he hesitated. Just for a moment. Then he unlocked the door and pushed it open.

It was dim, inside. The only light came from the lamp on the desk. It cast a soft glow over everything. Over Butch already sleeping on one of the cots. He was jacketless, shirtless and bootless. His white shirt was bunched up on the other cot together with his jacket and the bag. Butch's boots were on the floor beside the door, standing neatly. Harkness unlaced and kicked off his own boots; the floor was cold underneath his bare feet. Butch was lying down in the same position he had been in this morning. An arm was trapped under his head and his left arm dangled over the edge of the bed. His pip-boy was still attached to it. It meant that he had taken it off then strapped it back on after shrugging off his jacket. Harkness bent down beside the bed. Reached for the pip-boy to unclamp it from his arm. It sprang apart obediently. As careful as he could, he pulled it off. He wasn't going to access the gadget tonight. With the pip-boy safe in his grip, he pushed himself up –

A hand grabbed him. He turned to see Butch staring back. The gaze and the grip swept heat through him. They stayed like that for a while, eyes locked until Harkness placed the gadget onto the floor. He sat down on the cot. Yanked off his shirt while Butch shifted closer to the wall, making space for him. He slid down on the same mattress, into the warmth. He knew that it was a little cramped here. Knew that his back was sore. Knew that this was… illogical. Didn't make sense. Especially when they had another cot on the other side of the room. Especially when this… messed him up. Made everything haywire. Felt unfamiliar. Felt different. Felt… n_ew_.

He… wanted this again tomorrow.


	46. Chapter 46

**Hello, once again, everyone. Before anything else, I apologise for taking this long to finish the story. I confess that I had trouble writing the chapters. It's just very tricky for me and... I can only say I tried my very best. ****I thank you so much for your patience. **I hope the ending is worth the wait and I hope you enjoy it.

Thank you very, very much to **lilibombe** [lilibombe(.)deviantart(.)com] and **Woot** [dellyjelly(.)deviantart(.)com] for your opinions and patience in helping me with the story. Thank you **Woot** for your awesome beta skills. Any mistakes left in the chapters are my own. Also, **Nero **[albertogang(.)deviantart(.)com], you awesome person. Thank you for your constant encouragement and company, my friend.

I know I've been pretty much out of the loop and if I haven't replied to you, I am sorry. Thank you very much for all the comments and encouragement. **kittly**, I think I never really stopped writing; I hope I won't for some time. **aki**, thank you for reading 'Trouble'. And **CHARON**, I'm not sure how to answer your question. Charon doesn't appear in this story, so, I imagine he is still in The Ninth Circle with Ahzrukhal. If this answer isn't enough, do tell :p

**I bring you beautiful art as well. *_* Please check them out:**  
_**HP-17 4** -_ albertogang(.)deviantart(.)com/art/HP-17-4-279412367  
_**Butch and Hark dance night** -_ albertogang(.)deviantart(.)com/art/Butch-and-hark-dance-night-280323151  
_**HP-17 3** -_ albertogang(.)deviantart(.)com/art/HP-17-3-275443963  
**_Butch and Hark night_** - albertogang(.)deviantart(.)com/art/Butch-and-hark-niight-275260148  
**_lend me a hand_** - albertogang(.)deviantart(.)com/art/lend-me-a-hand-287073819  
_**is it a normal not feeling a pain** -_ albertogang(.)deviantart(.)com/art/is-it-normal-not-feeling-a-pain-288159788  
_**Hark and Butch shave 1** -_ albertogang(.)deviantart(.)com/art/hark-and-butch-shave-1-253493246  
_**Hark and Butch shave 2** - _albertogang(.)deviantart(.)com/art/hark-and-butch-shave-2-253685251  
**_Butch toothpick_** - albertogang(.)deviantart(.)com/art/butch-toothpick-254219741  
Everything by **albertogang**.

Also, I'm sure you have seen this before but here's **_To Charm_** - lilibombe(.)deviantart(.)com/art/Fallout-3-To-Charm-252843596 by **lilibombe**.

If I have missed you, please tell me.

**On to the chapter. Thank you for reading.**

* * *

**Trouble  
Chapter 46**

Everyday.

He expected this everyday.

So, when this finally came to him, he wasn't surprised.

"This is the second time it's happened," Seagrave whined, scratching his head. It made his light-brown hair shake on his scalp. Unkempt and uncombed. It seemed to be at various lengths which suggested that Seagrave cut his own hair.

"Told you to change your locks, Seagrave," Lana nagged, taking the helmet away from Seagrave's glove-covered hands. As she lifted it to her face, the tip of one antenna poked her cheek.

"I did change the locks." The sweet smell of baking wafted over to them as Vera came over, carrying Lurk cakes on a plate. Swirls of steam rose from the puffy crusts. When offered with food, Lana abandoned the helmet and thrust it into Harkness' hands.

Seagrave's helmet was heavy. White with irregular red patches where paint had been scratched off. It smelled faintly of turpentine and something... musty. Like a mix of compressed air and stale perspiration. On its visor, someone had carefully stuck two long giant ant's antennae with wonderglue. He traced the seam where organic met synthetic. The contact was strong. Neat. There were no dirty fingerprints on the helmet. No stray splotches of glue. No additional damage. It looked like the culprit even took the trouble to polish the visor; he could see his reflection in it.

He already knew who the culprit was, of course.

"So, what do you think, Chief Harkness?" Seagrave asked, glaring at the antennae.

"It looks..." Harkness started and stopped. _Footsteps. _Very familiar sounding footsteps echoed in the hallway outside. They were approaching the hotel. He lifted his eyes off the helmet.

And there he was.

The petty criminal.

The criminal greeted the room with a smirk. Cocky. Amused. He stepped into the lobby. Walked to him with long, slow strides, twirling his toothpick around his fingers. He ignored the twinge in his chest as he watched that glint of metal spinning around its rightful owner's hand. The criminal only stopped walking when he was close, just close enough to lend a hint of warmth before he dropped his gaze to the helmet and drawled "Badass." From somewhere behind them, Seagrave made a disapproving noise. He stomped away to Vera.

"That was unnecessary," Harkness said.

"Sure," was the criminal's nonchalant reply. He brushed his fingers on one of the antennae. It bowed and sprung back and forth. "But you're smilin'." Right. He felt a hum start under his skin at being caught. Reacting to his presence. To his magnetism. To _Butch._

"You had a busy morning," Harkness commented, indicating the helmet. Butch shrugged without denying his involvement or correcting him. He had the opportunity to do this almost all day yesterday; Harkness didn't have him under surveillance. He probably should have.

"I could be busier." His gaze wandered over Harkness' jaw where the stubble was growing. "Need a shave?" he asked. Teasing and serious at the same time.

"You're the barber." Butch snorted in response. He hooked his toothpick onto his belt and stepped closer. Harkness held his stare while Butch raised his hand and brushed the back of his fingertips on the spot he usually cut himself. Just a faint touch. Almost like one of those touches Butch used when he was gauging the length of hair to trim. But it wasn't. He could feel the heat of that touch. Could hear that invitation in his skin.

"If you want, all you gotta do is ask," Butch said, his voice deepening further, the hint of something else riding underneath that statement. It made him twitch in reaction even though they did this exchange everyday. Like routine. Harkness took a breath to speak. And Butch's gaze dipped down to his lips. That look stole all the words he might have wanted to say. Not that he had any in the first place. Well, he _had _words but they probably weren't the right ones. He didn't know how to articulate this thing... This thing between them. This thing that weighed down on everything in him. Settled in him like it belonged. Before he could do anything else, there was a flash of annoyance on Butch's face and he turned away.

"Morning," Vera greeted them. Butch grinned at her in a very open, earnest way but didn't step away from Harkness. If anything, he seemed to lean a little closer, behaving like a territorial Mirelurk on alert. Vera smoothed down her green skirt with her hands as she smiled warmly at them. "How's the room? Everything to your liking? I know the cots are a little lumpy."

Were they? He hadn't noticed. This morning, like every morning recently, he had awoken to the ceiling of their room and there was the sound of deep, even breathing in his ear. A smooth heat bathed the side of his body where an ankle locked around his. A forehead was resting on his shoulder. The warmth spread past his arm. Across his chest. Up his neck. It looped around every wire it reached. It was comfortable and yet... When he could no longer regulate his breaths, he slipped away from his bedmate. Transferred himself to their chair, feeling combustible and jittery. Like a timebomb down to its last milliseconds. He turned to where his roommate was still sleeping on the cot alone. Watched him adjust himself with his absence. Curled in around himself and the depression Harkness had made in the mattress. There was a sheen of sweat over his forehead. Across his bare arms. On the strip of exposed skin where his shirt had ridden up. He traced the curve of his neck with his eyes. That hint of his ribs. The visible veins on his abdomen. Some time later, he had glanced at their clock on the wall and realised that he had been sitting here for two hours. He still felt like he was going to break something.

"I slept well," Harkness told her. Beside him, Butch smirked, looking proud of himself. Vera beamed at him. She turned to Butch. Gave him a sweet smile.

"Since you're here, Mr Barber, can you help with Seagrave's hair?"

"Sure thing," Butch replied, winking at her. She thanked him and returned to Seagrave's sulking. Butch relaxed as she walked away. Flitted his eyes to Harkness. Searched his face.

"See you tonight," he said, his tone lifting at the end making it sound like a question, one he didn't need to ask. Harkness nodded anyway. Butch quirked up a smile and brushed past him, his heat lingering. He left Harkness there with the urge to grab him back. Harkness didn't.

"We might as well examine Seagrave's room," Lana reasoned as she stepped towards him, munching on one of Vera's cakes and carrying two more. Right. He had work to do.

There was no sign of forced entry on Seagrave's door; the lock didn't look like it had been tampered with. It was messy inside the room. Seagrave's natural clutter. No one else's. He deduced exactly which one of Seagrave's numerous tubes of wonderglue had been used judging by the shift in the dust. He also knew that the culprit took a seat right here on the edge of the desk where the documents had been pushed back. He traced the possible imprint of his body on the desk. These observations weren't strictly objective; he was just familiar with the culprit's habits. If Lana noticed his reluctance in solving this mystery, she didn't mention it. She was occupied as she bent over Seagrave's confidential blueprints strewn over his desk, dropping crumbs when she munched on Vera's cakes.

"How's your head injury today?" she asked as she turned away from the blueprints to regard him. It had become part of her daily routine to ask him this question. He still couldn't figure out what the hell Butch had told her about his 'head injury' or how he acquired it. Was it molerats? Deathclaws? When Preston looked over the gashes on his back, Butch had told the doctor that Harkness had banged his head into a mutie. He told Bonnie that someone crashed a bottle of wine over his head. Told Flak that he was hit on the head with a pool cue and that was why he 'sucked so bad' at the game now; that was why he kept missing shots.

"My head's... I have no idea." He saw Sister and Ted Strayer pass the open door. They were engrossed in some discussion about the shape of the letter 'y' and how to write it. There was a bang from somewhere in the ship. Sounds of the ship settling. Sounds of Brian, C.J. and James running in the halls. Familiar. Routine. In the past seven or eight days since they had returned, he had integrated himself into the patterns of life that Rivet City provided. He resumed his patrols. Walked the same routes he had walked before. Felt the same metal railing of the bridge on his hands. Listened to the same clangs and whirrs the ship made. Smelled the same smells of gunpowder from the bridge tower and watered down beer in the Muddy Rudder. All the things he was used to. This was where he had started a new life after Pinkerton. After Zimmer. After the Institute, the Commonwealth. He could connect here, in this place, with this place. But so far, nothing had triggered his system to wake. It stayed quiet. Asleep while his eyes were open. Sitting here, he nudged his system. Followed a thread that might lead him to it. He reached an open blankness. Silence. "Don't worry about me, Lana. I'm fine."

According to the clock next to the entrance, it was close to seven in the evening when he entered the marketplace. Lana had gone up to the bridge tower to meet Toby. He saw Seagrave at his shop with shorter, neater hair; the side parting in his hair looked like it had been done with a ruler. His helmet sat on top of his counter, antennae still attached to the visor. He was dumping what looked like a bunch of greasy rags into his opened locker. Cindy had closed up shop and was escorting Paulie away from the marketplace. Bannon passed by him with a nod and a polite 'Harkness'. At their shop, Flak and Shrapnel were discussing their accounts as they shared a bottle of scotch. He noticed Shrapnel eyeing an unrecognisable group of people sitting at the galley. He saw them too and moved a little nearer. Planted himself on the pile of stone bricks across Gary's galley while keeping his eyes on the group.

There were three of them. Dressed in mercenary garb. Blood-spattered hockey masks covered their faces. Strange metallic guards curved over their knees and elbows. The one on the right was fidgeting, scratching at various parts of his body. His legs were shaking but he wasn't sitting down. The one on the left, the only woman in the group, had a bulky sledgehammer strapped across her back. The one in the middle was waving around a sheet of yellowed paper. It seemed like he was trying to sell it to Gary, bartering with his gruff voice. Gary humoured him but offered snacks instead of a deal. Who the hell let them on the ship? He wouldn't have let them on, not until they took their masks off, at least.

"Huh," Butch's voice interrupted his scrutiny. His body had honed in on him since the moment he entered the marketplace. Like he had some kind of Tunnel Snake radar.

"You know them?" Harkness let him lean close; there was a scent of whiskey on his breath.

"They're Sudden Death Overtime… or somethin'. An icegang. Johnny did business with them." What the hell was an 'icegang'? Was it some kind of gang creed to know other gangs? After some moments of silent observation, Butch straightened. Gave him a meaningful look before he walked to the trio. Harkness closed his hands around his rifle. Flicked the safety off. Noted the increasing distance between Butch and him but couldn't measure it. "Goalie Ledoux," Butch greeted the one in the middle in a tone that everyone in the Wastes understood. Friendly with little tolerance for hostility.

"Snake," was the way Ledoux greeted him. Short. Curt. He invited Butch to sit with them with his chin, pointing to a vacant seat. Butch sat down. He ordered a drink and Gary handed him a bottle of water. He tipped the bottle back, drinking from it without his lips touching its rim; he never took his eyes of Ledoux. Harkness never took his eyes off him. After several swallows, he asked Ledoux about their 'game at the arenas'. Ledoux said that they had won the 'cup' whatever that meant, but the 'Nuka Clear' formula Saint supplied was a little too strong for their winger, the one with the shaky legs. It made Winger break out in rashes. As if on cue, Winger slipped his fingers under his mask; there was a loud _scritch scritch _of fingernails scratching skin. "You know anyone who can take this stuff? Pay some caps for it?" Ledoux asked Butch. He tapped a thick finger onto the yellowed paper he had placed on the table. Butch ran an eye over it before he pressed some buttons on his pip-boy.

"There's this chick in Girdershade. She loves that Nuka shit. She uh... kinda lost all her Quantums so she's gonna jump you for that recipe." He smirked, pointing at the screen of his pip-boy. Ledoux craned his neck to peer down at it. He asked about the journey, the raider territories to avoid, scavenger stalls and mutie camps. He planned their rest stops and their rations. His fingers hovered over the screen, tracing an invisible line in the air. A little too close to Butch. Harkness wound his hands around the rifle tighter. Some immeasurable time of crowding Butch later, the trio finished their drinks. Ledoux stood up. Gestured with his head that they were leaving. Butch stood with them. They walked to the marketplace exit. Closed the door behind them. Harkness followed. He opened the door.

And the sight made him stop mid-step.

He stood paralysed as he watched Butch walking away from him. Listening to the too familiar footsteps that drowned every other sound. Purposeful clomps of sole to metal. Step by step. Every step pulled something inside him. An ache he felt in every inch of metal. Then Butch stopped. And Harkness' pulse did the same. When Butch turned, Harkness threw his gaze to the sky. Exhaled a long, shaky breath. Anxiety tensing up his body. He wondered at the strong familiarity of seeing Butch cross halfway to the rest of the world away from him. His hands were holding onto the rifle so tightly, they hurt. He took a deep breath. Released the rifle and looked to where Butch was starting to lean against the railing at his post. He had zipped up his jacket. Popped its collar up like he usually did outdoors. Harkness willed his legs to walk to him.

"Told them you were my bodyguard," Butch said, smirking. Harkness stood beside him, watching the strand of snake sway. Watching the light line his profile. Watching his smirk soften. Like that look in his eyes as he faced the Wastes. "Y'know, they asked if I wanna go with them."

Bullshit.

"You're still here," Harkness said, voice steady. It didn't reflect the panic that rose in him. He forced his hands to stay by his sides.

"Come on." Butch snorted. "I ain't leavin' my bodyguard."

In an instant, he found himself clutching black leather. Hauling Butch to his chest. He couldn't help the way his fingers dug in. Couldn't help the mess that twisted inside. Couldn't stop the thin, breathless sounds that escaped his lips. Would this always haunt him? Was this the form his ghosts took on now? Would this ever let him go? This irrational, illogical fear. His survival, existence, _life _- it had been reduced to the length of a bridge, the many steps it took to cross it. And the many days, months, years it would take to wait for those steps back – if they came back. This was ridiculous. Because Butch was here, wasn't he? Warm. Solid. _Alive. Familiar_-

Butch shoved him off. He crashed into the railing behind him. It forced everything into alert. He looked up to see a fist flying to his face. He dodged. Felt it skim his left cheek. He caught that hand. Touched the splint wrapped around it. He was about to stop him when Butch lashed out. Ripped the strap off his chest; the rifle on his back clattered to the floor. Harkness pushed him. He hit the wall opposite them with a loud bang. Too hard. He was going to break Butch like this. But Butch didn't even let the hit sink before he swung. Smashed the pip-boy into his head. Pain splintered through face. A loud tinny noise filled his ears. He staggered. Disoriented. He saw instances of floor and sky swimming in his vision. Then he was slammed into the wall. The hit expelled all his breath. The still healing cuts in his back stung. Through the haze, he saw Butch raise his hand - Harkness grabbed him. Spun them around. Pinned Butch to the wall.

"Calm down," he ordered, blinking back the spots in his vision as he pressed his legs to Butch's. Trapped his hands against the wall. He was trying not to use all his strength. The pain in his head throbbed.

"You calm down." Butch struggled against him; he managed to push him off for a mere moment before Harkness pushed him back again. Held him down with more strength. Eyes narrowed at him. Lips curled into a sneer. "The fuck you gonna do?"

"What are you talking about?" Butch wrenched one hand free from Harkness' grip. Dug his fingers into his chestplate to snarl into his face.

"Last time you grabbed me like that, you blew yourself up, you bastard."

…

"Bullshit," he blurted out. Butch's eyes widened. Then narrowed.

"Fuck you," Butch growled. Shoved him. "Fuck _you_. You piece of shit machinery." Hissing in angry, clipped tones. "You think it's easy?" Butch heaved against him. Made a frustrated sound trapped behind his teeth. "I watched you _die_." His voice broke and the fight in him shifted. He stopped pushing. "You know what that's like? You try stoppin' a fuckin' light show with crap in your way and a broken hand." He looked to where he had Butch's right hand in his grip. Still pinned against the wall. It was bunched into a fist. So tight his knuckles were white. Shaking within its splint. "And for what? So you can be a hero? Fuck you." Butch glared at him. His blue gaze swirled with emotion. Red-rimmed. Upset. Vulnerable. "I ain't gonna let you do that shit again."

The last time he did this... he didn't think Butch would be hurt. The last time he did this, it was so that Butch _wouldn't_ be hurt. Androids didn't make decisions like that. They couldn't. The last time he had grabbed Butch like this, he had wanted to remember the sensation of his life in his hands. To comprehend the weight of this decision. That this was what he chose. This _man_. He had wanted to protect him. Hold him. Keep him. Feel him. Every moment till the moment he deactivated. He...

He didn't feel any different now.

He released Butch who immediately grabbed his armour. A motion caught between pushing and pulling. Daring him to do something worthy of a punch. "What you gonna do this time, tin man?"

Harkness placed a hand on his shoulder. He could feel his heat bleeding through the leather. He shifted his hand onto Butch's chest to feel the zipper tab slide between his fingers. Familiar. _So familiar_. He pressed on it. Pulled it down…

…down…

_…down -_

Butch caught his wrist. Peered at him. He studied Harkness like he was trying to figure him out. Like he _couldn't _figure him out. "What are you doing?" he repeated, voice soft. Softer than a whisper.

"I'm...going... the right way..." His tone lifted at the end making it sound like a question. It was one.

For a long time, they didn't speak. Butch barely seemed to be breathing, gaze focused on him. Unreadable. But he could feel Butch's heart beating in his chest. Could hear its thudding in his head. Fast. Strong. The reason he had no regrets detonating grenades by his feet. System or not.

And then there was a hard pressure on his lips. A tongue sliding on his upper lip into his mouth. His breath stuttered. Then he was lost. Caught by those fingers buried in his hair. The surge of electric that tore through him. The force of Butch's whole body behind this. Just like way he fought. It made him ache inside even as the scrape of a tongue along his sent everything haywire. Demanding. Desperate and wild. Triggering everything in him. Waking him up from a long period of nothing. The heat slipped away from him. And he found his eyes fluttering open; he hadn't realised he had closed them. He felt the metal railing across his back; he hadn't realised they had moved. Butch was tucked against him. Hard and firm. Muscular. Male. He felt dazed, watching Butch's tongue disappear past his reddened lips. Watching the motions his throat made when he swallowed that stolen taste. Harkness' lips were tingling. And his hands were tightly fisted in Butch's jacket. He couldn't seem to let go.

"I wanna punch you," Butch whispered in the dark space between them. Voice low, rough. A promised real threat.

"That wasn't a punch."

"No shit." Butch slid his hands up his neck, his cheeks -

Suddenly, Butch pulled away. Wrenched back all moments of his heat. His limbs felt like they jolted out of place, trying to hold onto him. He grasped onto the railing behind him instead. "Shit." The sound of that exhale twisted knots in his navel. He watched as Butch carded his fingers through his hair, messing it up in frustration. The tip of his tongue ran over a swollen lower lip and Harkness felt an answering rumble in his throat, knowing it was him Butch was tasting. Butch's expression was shuttered as he put both hands into his pockets with a sense of finality. He looked away from Harkness when he said "You flinched."

What the –

"You really…" He was struck by a wave of frustration himself. He let go of the railing, feeling less dazed. Feeling a little more in control. Feeling a lot more exasperated, observing the ridiculousness that was his barber. His roommate. Bedmate. Everything that was now scowling at him like he was the one who got it wrong. "What'd you expect? You hit me with your pip-boy." He could still feel the soreness of that bruise on the side of his face.

Butch took his hand out of a pocket.

And jabbed the bruise.

A sharp stab of agony pierced his head. The high-pitched tinny sound filled him again and he shut his eyes to stabilise himself. Under the pain, he felt Butch's knuckles kneading the bruise.

"Was tryin' to knock you out," he explained needlessly without an apology. He touched Harkness like was trying to soothe him. It wasn't working. A particular hard knead made him twitch. Butch snorted, the smile wavering on his face. Then he laughed. Wheezing and breathless. It seized something in his chest to hear him laugh like that. To recognise the immense _relief _in his laughter.

Butch stopped laughing. Harkness found that he had reached out to trace the scars crisscrossed on his cheekbone with his thumb. He was stunned by his own lapse in control but Butch didn't pull away. Didn't tell him to stop. Just let him touch. Eyes locked onto his, something familiar yet unreadable in them. It struck him then that...Butch had been waiting for him, hadn't he? Waiting for Harkness to reject him? To flinch? And Harkness... He wanted to -

"What, tin man?" Butch looked at him, lips parted. Waiting. _Still waiting._

"Can we... connect?"

"Fuck." Butch let out a shuddering breath Harkness didn't see him take. "Is that how androids say they want someone?"

"...is that a problem?" He had never meant this question as much as he did now.

The blue gaze roamed over his face. Peering. Studying. Trying to look at everything all at once. Harkness trailed his own gaze over the faint freckles spattered across his nose. The black of his pupils spreading into the blue. Butch's chest was rising and falling against his chestplate; the sound of his breaths so loud between them. Butch leaned close, making their foreheads meet, his serpentine strand of hair tickling him. They were almost the same height; he hadn't noticed that - No. He did. It just didn't have relevance until here. Until this moment. Until he was up against Butch, his stomach squeezing itself, anticipating a fall even though he was far away from the bridge's end. Even though he was standing on relatively solid ground. Even though... Butch was holding him steady. Butch shut his eyes. Pushed their lips together. And everything else dimmed. Charges resonated through him. Reached down to the tips of his toes as they curled in his boots. He had been kissed before. Once by Victoria Watts, somewhere before he became Harkness. Then Lana, that one time she got a little tipsy. It didn't feel like this. Nothing felt like this. This was different_. New. _He was lost in the firm softness of Butch's lips. In his coaxing motions. He opened his mouth and tasted the sound of a strangled groan. Butch wrapped himself around him as though they had always fit. Twined his tongue around his like they were seamless. Slurring electric heat all through him. Butch's taste was heavy at the back of his throat. Something difficult to categorise or define. Something smoky and deep spreading over everything in his mouth.

Butch took a step back. For a moment, he thought Butch was pulling away again but he dragged Harkness with him by the strap of his armour, by his buckle, trying to keep their bodies close as he walked backwards. They almost tripped over his rifle still on the floor where it had dropped. Without parting, they both kicked the weapon away, tilting themselves off-balance. The screeching slide of the rifle's metal stopped some way away - ignored for now. When they reached the wall, Butch unwound his fingers from the straps. He lifted Harkness' right hand and flattened it on his chest, the tab of the zipper nudging his fingers. Butch leaned away, just a fraction and ordered "Get to it, tin man. You're goin' the right way." He returned to sucking on his lower lip, sending flickers of sensation through them. Slower now. But still so desperate. He slid his palm up Harkness' neck and tugged. Insistent. Impatient.

Under his hand, the metal tab was a cold spot in the middle of all his heat. Harkness held it between his fingers. And pulled. Butch inhaled sharply, disconnecting them for a moment. He stared down his body as Harkness continued pulling the tab. The irregular sound of the zip separating filled the silence as the metal teeth gave way to him. Relented. Let him past. The tab made its journey downwards, the unclenched teeth glinting in the light. With a click, the jacket swayed open, revealing the vault jumpsuit underneath. It was moulded to Butch's body. Defining his chest. Hugging him tightly. He had seen Butch with his jacket unzipped. But this was different. New. Because _he _had undone it. Tension flared in his shoulders at the fact. Butch shifted. And then there were lips on his pulse. He sucked in a breath. Arrested by the deep heat blooming under his skin. Spilling across and penetrating his flesh. There was this sound in his head. A faint disjointed buzzing that made him think his gears were going the opposite direction. His body twitched with the unexpected suction. With the swipes of Butch's tongue on that spot. Draining all sense with his mouth. He only noticed that Butch had been working his armour loose when he heard the crisp click of his buckle unclasping.

"Take it off," Butch murmured on his throat, tugging his chestplate. His other hand was still cradling the back of his neck.

"Let go, then."

"Fuck no," he growled, scraping his teeth on his jaw. Harkness saw his own fingers flexing on the wall. Only then did Butch let go. Harkness stepped back to breathe. To calm the tide of charges pulsing in him. To calm himself before he really broke something. He started to pull the armour off his torso, feeling displaced and unstable. Obeying Butch. He dropped his armour on the floor. Did the same with his shirt.

When he looked up, Butch was yanking his pip-boy off his arm with no hesitation. So confident about being without his system. He wondered how Butch was so sure of this - of every move, every touch, every tilt of his head, every slide of his lips. The pip-boy landed on the floor with a loud clang but Butch didn't even glance at it. His eyes were trained on Harkness. And it was somehow warmer now to be without his clothes than with them. To be looked at like that. Like Butch was admiring him. Appraising. Absorbed. He slithered out of his jacket. Folded it in half before dropping it onto his pip-boy. He unzipped the jumpsuit with haste. Pulled the sleeves off his arms and threw them behind him; they hung limply by his sides. All these layers… what did it mean for Butch to take them off? For him. Like this. Outdoors, especially, when he obsessively covered himself from the thing that creeped him out up there. A faint breeze disturbed Butch's already tousled hair. Was he the one that messed it up like that? Far below, he heard the waves crashing against the side of the ship. Someone might chance upon them here. But what the hell would they do? Throw him off the ship? In the dimness, the moonlight sloped over Butch. Mingled with the flush on his skin sliding down his neck, his chest and lower. He took in the pale skin merging into tanned. The dark peaks of his nipples. The darker hairs on his navel. The battle scars. The thin white lines on his arm. His shadow fell over Butch; their combined ones spilling on the wall. A concentrated darkness surrounded by moonlight.

Butch reached for Harkness and the feel of his palm on his bare chest was intense. More intense than he remembered it being. How was that possible?

"Done this before, tin man?" Butch asked.

"Something…like that," he answered. He watched the hand caress his skin. Sweep over the pale lines on his torso. Drag rough fingertips on the ridges of his scars. The splint scratched the same path down, leaving a trail of heat. Fingers walked on his skin like they had walked the same paths before. Mapped his body with familiarity. Had it been Butch who had sewn him up instead of Saint?

"Yeah? What's that like?"

"Nothing like this." Butch chuckled, the vibration rippling down his chest. "In the Commonwealth, they would have me strapped down to the table. Plugged and wired. Sterilised. Neutralised. I was too… I couldn't do anything." He remembered now the too-bright lights. Figures blurring in and out of focus. The constant acrid smell of chemicals he didn't have the names for. The vague impression of 'pleasure' lacerating his wires. A sharp clinical feeling of being too clean inside out.

"Damn," Butch bit out and Harkness returned to him. To his eyes. And his lips and his skin. He hadn't realised that Butch had stopped his ministrations for some time and was now looking at him. Staring at him with certain tenderness that should be out of place in his face but wasn't. "They fucked you up." He could hear the sincerity in his voice, the concern, the anger not targeted at him. Butch looked at him like he was affected by this even though it had happened way before they met. Even though it wasn't him who had been strapped to the table. Something in his chest swelled at that and he never...

He buried his face into the crook of Butch's neck. Inhaled. Breathed him in. His warmth. His scent. Of leather. Of musk and sweat. His deep masculine smell. It was exactly what their cot smelled like. Arms surrounded him. And he felt so... he had never felt anything this… _good _until here. Until now. He had no idea how to express this thing in him. Something he couldn't quantify. Something indefinable. Infinite. Uncontainable. Butch had somehow fit into empty spaces he didn't know he had. Slotted into places like they were created for him. Like there had always been a Butch-shaped hole there. On his mattress. In his room. In his schedule. In him. Butch's fingers trembled as they ran through his hair in an effort to be gentle. He let his own hands find their way around him, curving around the planes of his body. The damp skin in the valley where his spine was. The knobs of his backbone. The hardness of his shoulder blades. The toothpick was still hanging from his belt, the buckle attached to it. It made him feel both irreparable and fixed at the same time.

"You okay?" Butch asked Harkness' left temple. Yes, he was. He had never felt better, weaker, needier. Special.

"Are you?" he asked his neck, committing to memory the way his lips moulded onto his skin as he dragged them along Butch's veins. Along the strong line of his jaw. Along the seam of his lips. He licked his way inside his mouth. Into his heat. His essence. Tasting and breathing him. Getting lost in his skin. His smell. The sounds he made.

Butch pushed away from the wall to press into him. A long line of body heat so scorching. A solid mass of Tunnel Snake. His body thrumming with life against him. So close together, they could have been fused. Machine and man. Everything raced to him. Followed his every touch. It was difficult to focus on his breathing. On anything. Harkness ran his hands down the goosebumps rising on Butch's arms to reverse their positions. He leaned back on the ship's wall behind him, rust cracking off the metal. It was warm there on his back with Butch's residual heat. Hotter where their mouths were connected. They parted for just a sliver of space where Butch panted into his mouth. The sky and the Wastes blurred behind him. They were irrelevant right now, just like the soreness in his back.

He felt hands travelling on him again. More purposeful. More deliberate. They paused on the straps around his thighs. Started to pull the strap out of its loops.

"You've done this before," he said. His voice was thick; it had gone molten with the rest of him.

"Sure. But not like this," Butch mouthed under his chin. Pecked a line of hot, dry kisses along his scruff. His voice was breathy and rough. Husky. One strap loosened. Fell to the floor.

"Because I'm an android?" Teeth grazed his throat, right where his voice component would be. Buzzes sparked under that spot. Butch chuckled. He looked up at him from the corner of his eyes. Still tugging on his other strap.

"Yeah. That too." There was a soft slide as the last of the strap was pulled off. It landed on the floor next to where the other one was. Butch unzipped his pants and -

_Fuck._

A sharp jolt of electric surged through him. Rushed through his veins. Fast. Shooting deep from his tip to his core. He shut his eyes to contain the burst of electricity twisting around his wires. Twisting around _there_. That hand curled around him. Tight. Hot. Taking all the breath out of him as he stared at the darkness tinged blue behind his eyelids. He opened his eyes.

To Butch's throat. His face was turned to the sky, illuminated by moonlight. Mouth opened like he was stuck on a breath. Throat bared. Exposed. The sight stirred something in him until he saw his hand gripping Butch's arm. The flesh had turned white with pressure under his fingertips. _Bullshit. _He loosened his grip, watching the red quickly fill up a five-fingered imprint. Butch hissed. Let out a shaky breath in the shape of his name.

"Harkness, I almost..." he sighed, ending with a low drawn out groan.

"You like that," he stated in disbelief. Because _hell_, he almost broke Butch. He had crushed beakers, smashed through sentry bots, ripped a Mirelurk shell from its head barehanded.

"What d'you think?" Butch slipped his hand out of his pants. The evidence of how much he liked it was obvious. His arousal was a hard outline against him. Butch hissed again. Shuddered. Leaned towards him a bit more. Offering more. Asking for more. He flattened his palm on Butch's chest. How the hell could even compare Butch to glass? He was skin, flesh, bones, blood. A heart beating at a frantic pace. His fingertips made dents in his flesh when he swiped his hand down, following the line that separated his torso, lingering at his abdomen, feeling it jump with shallow breaths. It made his throat run dry. Butch wedged himself into the space between his legs. Pushed his hips flushed to Harkness'.

The electric jolt zinged through his core again. He felt his edges crackling. "You like that?" Butch gasped into his mouth. Rolled his hips. He choked at the waves of intense pleasure. An exhilaration vibrating throughout his body. Reacting to the hard bulge rubbing against his own. Harkness swept his hand down Butch's jumpsuit covered thigh. And squeezed. He relished the sound of Butch's strangled moan as he shut his eyes. His face… he looked like he was in such pain. Brows furrowed. Lips red from where he had bitten down.

"What do you think, Tunnel Snake?" he rasped out. When Butch opened his eyes to him this time, he recognised the hunger in them. The one that meant that he wanted to jump. He leaned towards him. Butch shoved him back with a growl. The metal behind him reverberated upon impact. He found his pants being jerked downwards. The feeling of being freed was so gratifying he couldn't help the way he quivered.

"Damn. You been hanging loose all this time?" Butch said under his breath. He wanted to form a reply but his mind blanked. He shivered. The grip around him tightened. He could feel the length of each finger wrapped around him. Swirling on his flesh. Stroking. Caressing. It was so… hot. All around him. A tight heat simmering under his skin. Smouldering. Everywhere. Like Butch had set every wire alight and he was _burning_. He was going - he wouldn't be able to – He grabbed Butch's arm. A little off from where his handprint was.

"Butch," he exhaled. The sound of his own voice was unrecognisable. An inhuman snarl scraping his throat raw. He watched as Butch shivered at what he was looking at, which was him. He wondered what he was seeing, what was he thinking of. He wondered if Butch was scared of him and choosing not to be. Butch released him – and that, even the way his digits slid off the flesh was just so - He banged his head into the metal wall behind him to reduce the haziness. It didn't work. It made him feel more light-headed. Made his head ache. Made him feel unhinged. Dazed. Drunk. He watched Butch yanking down his jumpsuit. He caught a glimpse of 'Vault 101' on his undershorts before those were yanked down too. Then Butch ground into him.

He snapped his head back. Let out a guttural sound. Ripped from somewhere deep within him. The connection of their flesh was an intense sharp shock of electric. It shook him. His core. Made the mess in him _writhe_. Made something gnaw on the underside of his metal. Tear its way out his skin. Harkness blinked at the ceiling, at the pipes and plates bent around the framework of the ship. He looked down to see the both of them trapped in the heat of their bodies. He watched their lengths slide against each other, Butch smearing a silvery line of fluid down his navel. He could feel the tight throb on the tip of him that belonged to Butch. The rough hairs along his skin. The dampness that was Butch's sweat; androids couldn't sweat. Slick where their flesh met. Dragging on him. Wringing every sensation through him. It felt like his metal was melting from the inside.

He reached around Butch. Grabbed the swell of his ass. Jammed them together. Butch grunted. His hips stuttered into him. Rutting. Rhythmic and desperate. He listened to the sounds of their connection. The squelching rhythm. Uncontrolled. Inconsistent. _Perfect._ He felt the mess in him twisting. Coiling. Tightening. Pulsating. Butch dug his fingers into his flesh. Snapped his hips haphazardly into him. Into the tight space between them. Harkness pulled him closer even though there wasn't any room. The charges zoomed around in his frame. Filled him to the brim with their electric heat. Overwhelming. Overheating. He felt his body almost convulse with want. His control was lapsing in and out. Trying to capture every groan. Every hitch of breath. Every inch of his body. Every whimper on his lips. Everything was heat and friction. All slick and smooth. He felt hunger. An intense thirst in the very outermost layer of his skin to the deepest core inside him. His body had never worked like this. Never hung on to something like this. He was going to leave so many finger-shaped bruises on Butch but _fuck_, he couldn't stop. He held on to him, feeling the acute twists of pure, uncomplicated pleasure. He knew the exact moment his control cut him loose.

Their rhythm sped up. The intense pleasure clung to him. Clawing. Grasping. Grabbing. Clenching and not letting go. His vision was a blur. The mixture of sounds formless. The mess inside unfurled. Then tightened. Strung him out. Taut. He felt and heard Butch's wet gasps on his neck. He lifted his chin and caught his lips. Trying to hang onto - And he couldn't control - couldn't. Trying to - trying to - It was - Hard to think. Harder to _breathe. Harder to harder harderharder_

He blanked.

Then blue exploded behind his eyelids.

Bright. Blinding. Familiar. It was the blue he had been activated in. The blue he hadn't seen since he woke up. It flickered along his edges. Flooded him - _Android heaven finally let you go - _And he fell into his system_ - tell me how fucked up your system is right now -_ It caught him - _Havin' fun, tin man – _Touched him - _You know I seen the way you shoot - _Swirling around him_ - Harkness - You hurt yourself and I'm gonna kick your ass - _On its own momentum - _You really thought I was dead - What else am I supposed to do here? - _Untargeted - _You're not easy to find - You ain't a tin can -_ Unsynchronised- _What do you think - If you want, all you gotta do is ask - _Through him - _How come you feel pain - And how's your head injury - _Present_ - You know what it's like - _And alive_ - I watched you die - _This was different_ - Nothing like this_- But he could see it now. The blue of his system. His 1% that was lost. It was here. Dispersed in every part of his body. In his skin. It was attracted to Butch. Raced to him. Stayed with him. Magnetised and charged. And he understood now. Understood his body's responses. His tendencies. His reactions. Expectations. When he saw those ghosts. When he expected Butch's presence. When his system didn't protest his decision to detonate those grenades. Somehow, he had programmed Butch into his system without knowing it. Somehow he had wired Butch to himself.

He came back to his body. Pinpricks of feeling crawled onto him. And he was slowly aware of the wall behind him. Of the thumb wedged into his pulse. His legs were shaking. He felt like he had melted and spilled all over the floor. He was aware of their mingled scents in the air. The dry breeze on his skin. The slickness on his stomach. The blue blankness gave way to living blue, filtering out of his vision. And saw him. His ghost coming to life. He was glowing, skin shimmering in the moonlight. The very thing he didn't understand yet made perfect sense to him. He was calling him. Not his name but -

"Babe," said in a mere whisper.

"...is that... a new thing you're going to call me?" he asked, his own voice sounding strained. Butch leaned closer, looking so... lost.

"What? You didn't say anythin' about it last time." The accusatory tone that that phrase should have been in was absent. He had no idea what Butch was talking about.

"What last time?"

Butch's face crumpled. Instead of answering, he leaned forwards. Slipped his tongue into his mouth. And kissed him. Smothered him with his taste. Warm and wet. _Broken. _Something in him clenched. And he clutched Butch with an intense need. Harkness closed his hand around Butch's wrist. Searched for his heartbeats on the pad of his thumb. He desynchronised. And re-synchronised to match those heartbeats. Made himself pulse in Butch's rhythm.

"You made me explode," Harkness confessed into his mouth. Butch took a moment to blink at him before he smirked, his lips stretching against his. He snorted. Smacked him in the chest.

"Yeah, yeah. I'm good," he said. Cocky and confident. Then he paused and the smirk fell. He trailed his trembling hand over Harkness' chest. Splayed his fingers over the place he smacked. With a low voice he added "It ain't the first time, right?"

"Not the last time, either," Harkness promised. Because he'd like to do this again. And he'd do it all over again, blow himself up, everything if he had to. Butch stared at him. Held him tight.

"Yeah, I know."


	47. Epilogue

**STOP! You have reached the epilogue. If you haven't read the previous chapter, chapter 46, please do so… unless you don't want to, that is. **

**Onwards to the epilogue. **

* * *

**Trouble**  
**Epilogue **

"Is Bigtown really a big town?" Lana asked, nudging him with an elbow.

"No, it's small," he replied, feeling warmth ripple down his back. "It's full of dust and debris. It's seen a lot of battles. And the people are…odd. Disorganised. Noisy..." They also accepted him and his android nature. "They're good people."

"Good of you to help them, then," Lana said. On the other end of the bridge, Toby and two other guards looked out at the Wastes. They were watching for the trader caravan that was due to arrive; Crazy Wolfgang was already a day late. Seagrave, Mister Lopez, Ted Strayer and Bryan Wilks waited patiently on the bridge, peering down into the water.

Harkness lifted his face to the sky. He didn't know its exact shade of RGB. Wasn't sure what time of day it was. Couldn't tell the exact temperature. But he knew that the sky was blue, flecked with yellow. He knew it was morning. Knew it was warm out here. His system didn't provide him with answers but… it didn't have to. He could figure this out. Behind his eyelids, the blue was still in the process of ebbing away. Taking its time fading to darkness. He could still feel the throbbing in his wires. A low, quiet hum that didn't quite settle but wasn't uncomfortable. His system had reached for him last night. It darted through him with boundless energy. Danced around his core. Filled him with its charges. It was here. Activated. Alive. It operated differently than before but that was fine. He could live without needing it the same way he used to. He followed a charged thread in his head. It led him nowhere, somewhere, everywhere, a whole world that was familiar to him yet wasn't quite the same. Just like the world out here.

"How's your head injury today?" Lana asked, peering at him in concern. Her hair was shining golden, like she was wearing sunlight on her head. And he wondered if he could he ever tell her what he was. Tell her he was metal and wires underneath. Would she still smile at him like that? Would she throw him off the ship? It probably didn't matter anymore.

"I think… it's getting better," he said. Lana smiled at him. From the other end of the bridge, Toby called out to her and waved over the group of Rivetians. Wolfgang must have finally arrived. Lana straightened.

"You coming?" she asked. Harkness glanced at the Rivet City entrance behind him. Still closed. He declined, watching her re-tie her hair as she stared across the bridge at Toby.

"I'm happy for you," he told her. She paused in the middle of tucking a blonde strand behind her ear. A slow smile spread across her face. Reaching out, she squeezed his shoulder with what he recognised as affection.

"I'm happy for you too," she said and walked away with the other Rivetians. He watched her go, feeling exposed. Like his wires were showing. Like his codes were in plain view.

It was then that the door behind him swung open. He tracked the familiar sound of footsteps walking to him, Tunnel Snake radar going haywire in him. Something cold and wet dripped on his arm. He looked down to see a bottle of Nuka Cola pressing its condensation onto his skin. He traced that bottle, around the hand that was holding it, up to Butch who was staring at him openly, lips pulled into a barely there smirk. Harkness took the bottle, put it to his lips and sipped. The cola was sweet. Cold. Refreshing. Butch settled beside him, pushing both hands into his pockets. He was freshly showered. Hair combed neat. Jacket zipped and its collar popped up. There was no trace of last night on him. But he remembered what dawn looked like spilling over naked, freckled skin. And it didn't matter anymore if the cola was cold on his tongue.

Before he could hand the bottle over, Butch pushed his fingers away, stealing the bottle from his hands like the petty criminal he was. Harkness faced him.

And stilled.

He eyed the way Butch drank, his Adam's apple bobbing with each swallow. He traced up his neck with his eyes. Up to the curve of his lips. They were wrapped tight around the rim of the bottle as he tipped it back. A restless frisson travelled through him at the sight. Butch pulled his mouth off the bottle with a loud _pop_. Licked his lips.

"Y'know, we don't show up on the cameras," he said. Harkness didn't reply, unable to work around the sudden dryness of this throat. "Security cameras. They're on the bridge, right?"

Bullshit.

"You got into the bridge tower again?"

"Hey, man. I didn't do nothin'. Your guards let me in." Butch shrugged. "They trust me or whatever. Cause we share a room," he continued, frowning.

"And… that's a problem?"

"It's just...easy, y'know. I mean, all my life I gotta..." his voice trailed off. "You make it easy." He stared at Harkness in an accusatory way. "…sometimes," he added. "Most times, you're still an asshole." Right. But nobody smiled at assholes the way Butch smiled at him.

"I can throw you off the ship if you want," he said. He could. He would.

"Try me, tin man," Butch challenged, turning his body to him; that fluid action reminded him of their connection again. The mess in him twitched. And he felt an urge to do something. To push. To shove. To grab. To slam Butch against the railing. To pin him down and stare at him. To _hunt_. He understood this feeling now. Recognised it. Could relate to it. It was an altered form of the urgency he had felt when he was an android hunter. An urgency he felt as the Chief of Security keeping an eye out for trouble. His system treated Butch like his mission. It regarded him as someone he had to keep chasing. Except he didn't want to subdue him or neutralise him or erase him. He just wanted to... he just wanted to claim him. Because he was an integral part of him. Something must have shown on his face because Butch leaned closer. His fingers around the bottle twitched like he wanted to touch. "I can't mark you," he said, voice deep.

"So draw a snake somewhere."

"Yeah?" he asked. Teasing and serious. Harkness nodded, relishing the way stray charges buzzed under his skin. Signalling how magnetised he felt by him. Butch's smirk widened. He wrapped his lips around the rim of the bottle again. Finished the cola with his gaze locked on Harkness. As he turned to put the bottle down, his eyes widened. "Johnny?"

Harkness turned to the bridge. Saint was indeed walking to them. He was clad in a grey jumpsuit, getting ash on it when he tapped the cigarette between his teeth. He seemed to be lugging a sack behind him.

"Chiefy," Saint greeted Harkness. He greeted Butch with "Hey, Android Fucker." Butch shoved the other Vault kid in response. Saint stumbled backwards at the force, exhaling a short bark of laughter.

"The fuck you doin' here?" Butch demanded.

"Putting Bigtown on the water route," Saint answered simply, reaching behind him. "And uh…" He tugged out a large, irregular shaped object out of the sack and handed it to Harkness. It was covered in what seemed to be canvas. It was also heavy in his hands. Hard. Oddly... familiar. Harkness unwrapped the package -

It was his plasma rifle.

"Look," Saint started. "It's not that I don't appreciate it but the only time I used it, the dead guy wasn't dead. He came back with quintuplets."

"That's just cause you suck, Nosebleed," Butch drawled. Saint acknowledged the comment with a nod. He took a deep inhale from his cigarette before he spoke again.

"I'm uh… also thinking of crashing the Talon Company's tea party." He grinned a Saint-ly grin. "Was wondering if you want to come along?"

Harkness ran his eyes down Saint's physique, looking at the lack of anything useful that he was carrying. Based on the previous times they had worked together, he doubted Saint was that much of a 'one-man army' like the rumours said he was. He glanced at Rivet City behind him. Lana would keep the ship standing, wouldn't she? Besides, the city had more guards than really required. In his room, their bag was still unpacked from when they left Bigtown, sitting on the cot that they didn't share. He looked out to the Wastes. How was Bigtown coping now that Saint, Butch and he were gone? He couldn't help but wonder about this new alliance: The Saint, the Snake and the Android. As he dropped his eyes onto his plasma rifle, he felt a strong surge of emotion holding it again. Like he'd been given another option he hadn't thought of. He felt... in control. _More than a machine, more than a man_.

"Alright," he said. Saint grinned.

"Hey, hey, hold up." Butch stared at him in disbelief. "You even think 'bout this for a sec? You're the Chief here." He spread his arms and swept them outwards, indicating the ship. "I mean, babe…" His voice lowered, softened as he stared at him deeply, intensely. He stepped close to grip his arm, spreading warmth up his hand. "Ain't there trouble on the ship?"

Something in his chest squeezed itself. And he curled his own hand around Butch's arm where he knew he left his mark.

"Sure," he said, feeling life thrumming underneath his fingers. "But I'm taking you with me."

**End.**

* * *

**Thank you very much for reading. I hope you have enjoyed this story. It has been a great experience writing it. Thank you for your patience and encouragement. Thank you for all your kind words and comments. Thank you for the favourites, watches, alerts and reviews. Thank you for all the beautiful fanart. Most of all, thank you for your presence. I appreciate it. I am grateful for it.**

**Take care, everyone. **

**- Rusty**


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